


Being Donald Trump: It's Good to Be King

by Worffan101



Series: Being Donald Trump [2]
Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Catharsis, Don't Try This At Home, Fuck Mike Pence, The Author Regrets Nothing, The author's therapy session, Worst President Ever!, make Supergirl gay again!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-02-10 05:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 91,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18654211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Worffan101/pseuds/Worffan101
Summary: Comrade Donnie returns, facing education reform, Israeli-Palestinian peace negotiations, and the increasingly uncontrollable movement that he himself has spawned.  Follow the increasingly insane student turned POTUS as he/I face/s off against everything from thuggish dictators to delusional ultranationalists to depression.





	1. Fuck This Noise

**Author's Note:**

> Here goes year 2.

_January 1st, 2018. The Situation Room, the White House. 3:15 AM._  
  
“Mr. President, Secretary Mattis, I apologize for my late arrival…” DNI Robert Mueller begins, and then cuts off as I grab him by the tie like a drowning man clutching a life raft.   
  
“Paul Manafort. Working for the Kremlin. Nail him to the fucking wall.  _Now_.”   
  
“...what the Hell? Uh, Mr. President?”   
  
“We have new intel on the President’s former campaign manager,” Secretary of Defense James Mattis tells Mueller. “Mr. President, let the DNI go, now.”   
  
“Uh, yessir, sorry, Mattis.” I let Mueller go and straighten out the tie. “Sorry, Bob.”   
  
“...uh, don’t mention it, Mr. President. What exactly is the  _source_  of this information?”   
  
I look to Mattis in terror. I didn’t think this far ahead when I woke up in panic with a year’s worth of bad memories of another reality. He clears his throat.   
  
“Bob, shut the door. Mr. President, I think we should bring Mr. Mueller into the circle of trust.”   
  
“...if you’re sure,” I reply after a moment. Mueller shuts the door and crosses his arms.   
  
“What the Hell is all this about?”   
  
“I’m not actually Donald Trump,” I admit. “I’m a depressed college student who woke up in the wrong body on Inauguration Day.”   
  
“He apparently committed suicide during a particularly bad moment a couple of weeks ago in the original timeline, and so has a year’s worth of memories of what happened,” Mattis explains.   
  
“ _Had_ ,” I growl. “I got other-me’s 2018 download a couple of hours ago. I don’t know how. Apparently this version of me didn’t jump and waited for my dad to pick him, or me, whatever, up from the dorm. Long story short, original flavor Trump led a witch hunt trying to purge thousands of soldiers from the military to appease a bunch of bigots, nearly caused a third intifada, repeatedly verbally attacked the press, the right to free speech, and a bunch of other cornerstones of democracy, nearly caused a war with Iran, nearly caused a war with North Korea before deciding instead to meet with Kim Jong-Un and beg him to pretty please stop making nuclear threats, palled around with Nazis and Klansmen, said that Nazis and Klansmen were ‘very fine people’ the day after a Nazi murdered a woman in Virginia while ramming his car into a crowd, destroyed thousands of jobs by trying to start a trade war with China, and appointed a rapist to the Supreme Court.” I pause for breath. “And apparently he gave hush money to Playboy models in an illegal way. I found out about all this at midnight when I got a year’s worth of memories downloaded into my head.”   
  
Mueller raises an eyebrow. “Mr. President, Mr. Secretary, clearly you put a lot of effort into this joke, but…”   
  
“It’s not a joke, Bob,” Mattis tells him. Mueller goes white as a sheet. “The President of the United States is a borderline-mentally-unstable millennial with supernaturally good luck who’s actively working against every single thing Trump campaigned for,  _and I’m pretty sure he’s a better President than the original Trump_.”   
  
“You’re...you’re shitting me,” Mueller manages.   
  
“I wish I was,” I reply. “Believe me, Bob, I wish I was.”   
  
“Holy shit.”   
  
“Yup.”   
  
It takes him a full ten minutes to gather himself. Mattis and I wait. Mattis hides a few yawns. I fidget.   
  
“OK,” Mueller rasps after he gets done with the pacing stage. “You’re going to uphold that oath you took on Inauguration Day?”   
  
“Yeah, I had the bible replaced with the Communist Manifesto, it’s morally and spiritually binding. And I love my country anyway.” Mueller raises an eyebrow, and I shrug. “What? I’m an atheist!”   
  
“Dear god,” Mueller mutters. “So...Manafort?”   
  
“He has something on Putin,” I tell him. “Something big. Big enough that he lied to your team--you were investigating the Russian election meddling that we all know happened.”   
  
“The investigation Comey has Sally Yates running?” The former Deputy AG was reassigned to the investigation after Kamala Harris took over as Attorney General, and has been quietly chugging away investigating Russians for a year now. “Comey told me there was evidence she found that your--I mean, Trump’s campaign was involved.”   
  
“My, uh, flamboyance, it backfired. The media circus gave Manafort and some of the oily types Trump had on his team cover their tracks a bit. I want them uprooted. Paul Manafort. Michael Flynn, and his son. Rick Gates. Some guy called Pappadopoulos. Nail them to the fucking wall.” I slam my fist into the big conference table. “That sonofabitch Putin rigged our fucking election, just because we helped that thug Yeltsin do it in ‘96 doesn’t mean it’s OK now!  _Fuck him up, Bob_!”   
  
“I will, Mr. President.” Mueller shakes his head. “Jesus Christ. How...how did any of this happen?”   
  
“Beats me,” I admit. “I’m still getting used to being Donald Trump.”   
***  
 _10:30 AM_.   
  
“Mr. President,” Vinnie greets me as he enters. “I got the call from Mattis. Are you alright?”   
  
“I got a year of shitty memories, and about two weeks of mostly great ones, downloaded into my head, Vinnie. Other-me’s 2018, I don’t get into graduate school, my parents and I argue a lot, I barely get any of my writing done despite all the time I have for doing it in without graduate school, all my job chances fall through, I have the pre-graduation week from Hell while living in a non-air-conditioned cave of a room so humid the carpet was growing mildew and so hot it made my dad feel faint just walking in with no recourse for when I couldn’t sleep, graduation day is rainy and my parents are pissed at me because I’m so unhinged, starved because they don’t bother to feed us during graduation week, exhausted because of going without sleep for weeks, and angry I try repeatedly to sabotage it which only pisses off my parents more, and to cap it off we have to put my cat down due to kidney failure and she dies in my arms. I got to experience my cat dying in my arms through memory download last night and now I know it’s going to happen for other me and there’s not a damn thing I can do because the flea infestation that caused her health to decline in the first place already happened and I won’t even get the closure of saying goodbye to Pipsqueak. I’ll never see or feel or hear her again, I’ll never hold her or even get a fucking picture of the cat I loved and cared for for  _ten fucking years and more_ , goddamn it!  _HOW THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I FUCKING FEEL? I’M NOT FUCKING ALRIGHT AND I’M NOT GOING TO BE ANYTIME…_ ”   
  
Vinnie cuts me off by grabbing me in a bear hug, and I collapse into his burly shoulders, sobbing uncontrollably. “Easy, sir,” he says quietly, patting my back. “Let it out.”   
  
“She was such a good cat,” I whimper. “She was a good, soft lap kitty, loved being held and sitting on your lap and purring, you know? Really fat and warm and gentle.” I sniffle, snot leaking out of my nose. “She loved me the most, I spent months, years being nice to her and giving her lots of treats, and she loved me, she’d climb up and sit on me all the time. And she’s going to die and there’s not a fucking thing I can do!”   
  
“Not for Pipsqueak, but you can do a Hell of a lot of good for plenty of other cats,” Vinnie notes. “Look at Mr. Whiskers,” the long-haired feline of indeterminate breed I had picked up from a shelter to be my Blofeld cat last year. “You’ve given him regular meals he doesn’t have to compete for, plenty of attention, and a couple other humans--your son and daughter, me when I have the chance, I know your admin and Clay love to give the little guy a pat when they can--who take care of him when you aren’t around. That cat’s happy and healthy because of  _you_. Hundreds of thousands of kids with no future are going to have a chance because of  _you_. Putin’s attempts to run his little Soviet Union tribute cover band are being fucked up the world over because of  _you_. For crying out loud, you’ve got a small legion of plans lined up to deal with everything from education to racist cops--even if you can’t help Pipsqueak, you can help other cats, dogs, birds,  _millions_  of people.   
  
“So don’t you  ** _fucking_**  dare let yourself get sucked into that depression crap, kid! You’ve got the chance to save the goddamn world here! Buckle up, talk to your therapist, cry on my shoulder if you have to, and focus on doing good where you can.” He shakes his head. “Trust me. Getting sucked in to might-have-beens and stuff you know you can’t deal with is the worst mistake you can make. Now c’mon. Tell me what ideas you’ve got for the next month. Let’s do some good.”   
  
I nod, catching my breath. “Right. Right.” I pull away for a moment, running my fat little hands through Trump’s toupee. My toupee. Whichever. God, I’m starting to  _identify_ with this shitty body. “Education and Israel. Maybe with Native American affairs. That’s what we do in the spring. Summer we pivot to education as the main focus. I want to meet Tyson today--Secretary Tyson. And the people in propaganda--you said there was a new hire?”   
  
“Yeah, Annie got you a new PR lady. She’s right outside.”   
  
“Gimme half an hour. I gotta eat first. And calm down.”   
  
“Sure thing, sir. Fatima’s here all day.”   
  
He’s right, much as part of me doesn’t want to admit it. Time to buckle down and save this country.   
***  
 _January 2nd, 2017_.   
  
“...and I’m going to push for a comprehensive plan to support our agriculture and education, specifically our farmers and our fantastic unionized teachers! We will destroy capitalism! We will build a better world for all Americans, by making the fat-cats pay their fair share! And that’s why I’ve ordered the Department of Justice to defend my tax changes, the first stage in our glorious revolution, to the hilt. We’re going to build that green eco-friendly socialist paradise my buddies on the Left keep talking about. MAGA SOCIALISM! MAGA FREEDOM!”   
  
I pause for breath as I reach the end of my short speech to the press, and grab my glass of grape juice for a drink. Then something comes to mind. “Oh, right. And Gwyneth Paltrow is a horrible person who sells overpriced bullshit made by ruining the environment to gullible suburbanites, like jade eggs for your hooch that can cause bacterial infections of ladies’ privates because jade’s porous and collects bacteria, and herb concoctions that I don’t even know exactly what they contain. So, uh, fuck her. You want to be closer to nature or some shit like that, put solar panels on your roof and learn how to compost food and yard waste. Hey, our fantastic farmers already have a head start there! MAGA FARMERS!”   
  
I take another drink. “So, while we’re here, I’d like to announce that in addition to the  _Work for America, If You’re Man Enough!_  program, I will be working with Democrats and fans of Syndicalism like Comrade Bernie and Representative Pelosi to fix our education system, because the corporate-owned Republicans like Mitch McConnell are owned by the corpos who want you poor and stupid! America’s education system is very low-energy, sad! We’ve fallen behind, we teach on shoestring budgets to shitty standardized tests run by corrupt corpos, thanks to dickheads like Mitch McCrackhead and his douchebag cronies! Fuck the corpos! MAGA Syndicalism! We need our kids to have the best, free public education in the goddamn world, because America is the best country in the world and we need to be the best and keep being the best, MAGA America, MAGA Socialism! Right now, corrupt scum like Betsy DeVos and Bobby Jindal are trying to turn our school system into a corrupt corpo-run oligarchy where the corpos send their kids to charter schools they fund with money taken from the Workers of America, and that ain’t right! Charter schools are a fucking scam! No oversight! Very low-energy! There’s one, one charter school, where they even had a bar, an alcohol bar in the cafeteria, I heard!” Technically they just used the cafeteria for a bar after hours, but still. “Fuck that noise! To Hell with corporations, to hell with capitalism!   
  
“I will be working with the National Education Association, the American Federation of Teachers, and pro-worker members of Congress to form a comprehensive education reform program this year. We should have a couple months before the Israelis and Palestinians finish hashing out the final requirements for the treaty signing ceremony,” I’m pushing for the Dome of the Rock, complete with joint Muslim, Christian, and Jewish religious ceremonies, but there are security concerns and matters of who signs first and who shakes hands first and how that are holding everything back, “so that gives us plenty of time to get some shit done. We will dramatically increase education funding, aiming to vastly increase the number of professional educators in America and the salaries of said educators, to review and standardize curricula outside of math and English so as to ensure that STEM education in America remains strong, to review and standardize history curricula on a national level so as to forever eradicate the stain of Lost Causer ideology and Dunning School lies from our great nation, and to ensure that for all of history, our students will always be the best. We will take our education system back from the corpos, make it free and equal for all our fantastic kids, we will save the world, save it with our students, the best education system, very high-energy, MAGA freedom!”   
  
I pause for breath and take another drink. “Also, stay in school kids. MAGA education! Folks, Comrade Donnie’s about to turn to the reporters for questions, but remember,  _DonnieTube_  will be updating later with another video telling you about the exact details of my plan so far, with detailed updates as the situation develops, and a kid-friendly version of the same with all the cuss words removed. Teach your kids about how America’s government works today! MAGA  _DonnieTube_!   
  
“Any questions?”   
  
As usual, I pick Lacey Dawes (currently CNN White House Correspondent and going up in the world) first. Maybe I should shake up my routine.   
***  
 _January 6th_.   
  
“PATRIOT act repeal’s gonna have to wait until I’ve solidified support by getting this education reform through,” I say as Vinnie, Annie, and I flip through policy plans with my new PR lady, Secret Service agents swarming the halls outside. “Annie, how was Tahitii?”   
  
“Fantastic, Mr. President.”   
  
“Just fantastic?”   
  
“Well, unless you want  _details_  about what Vivian and I did on our  _private vacation to a clothing-optional beach…_ ”   
  
“Crystal clear. Got it. How’s enrollment in the  _Work for America, if you’re man enough!_ program?”   
  
“We’re backlogged already, a hundred thousand people on the waiting list. The Republicans who’ve retained any organization at all have stopped protesting because it turns out that the program’s got sky-high popularity in the Midwest.”   
  
“Heh, awesome. Lisa Murkowski? I heard McConnell was going to kick her out of the party?”   
  
“They’re preparing to kick her out, but she’s going to rebrand as an Independent and her poll numbers are in the upper 80s after bringing home the bacon with that tax bill. My contacts in the Senate aide community tell me that McConnell’s thrown three mugs and screamed at two colleagues this week. Are you certain on the slogan for your education campaign? We could keep the ‘Make X Great Again’ theme.”   
  
“Nah,  _They Want You Poor And Stupid_  is better. We need to unite people across ethnic lines as part of the destruction of the capitalist divide-and-conquer system. A class enemy will do as a provisional unifying force. How are discussions with the Grand Ayatollah going?” I’ve been trying to get a meeting scheduled with Ali al-Sistani for months and it’s been hell to figure out, but by god, these next Iraqi elections are going to be endorsed by the country’s top cleric if it kills me. Middle Eastern stability needs it all to go smoothly.   
  
“He wants to visit. Something about your holiday party and him wanting to save your uncouth soul?”   
  
I chuckle at that. “I think I’m starting to like this guy. Israel and Palestine?”   
  
“They’ve agreed to the Dome of the Rock with a press event afterwards at the Western Wall, but there are security concerns. Specifically, concerns about who should handle security.”   
  
“Have Secretary Walker put out feelers to the UN for providing troops. Or call the Irish. The Irish are great at holding down forts against long odds, I watched a movie about that shit.  _The Siege of Jadotville_. Good stuff. Jamie Dornan and Mark Strong. And find me a suitable Sunni cleric--I’m gonna talk with the Grand Ayatollah al-Sistani about going in to Jerusalem with a multi-faith effort aimed at getting religious endorsement of the peace process. I want Sunnis, Shi’a, Christians, Jews, all those assholes to be told by senior religious figures to play nice. Get the Pope in on it, too--set me up for a call.”   
  
“Yes, Mr. President, I’ll put that on the list.”   
  
“Awesome. How’s the settlement debate?”   
  
“Vehement but they’re coming around to your Green Line proposal, Mr. President. Especially since we agreed to post ‘security consultants’ for the first two years.”   
  
“See if we can leverage anything. I’ll let Israel get away with even a single inch of their little ethnic cleansing and replacement land-grab plan on the day Hell freezes over.”   
  
“Understood, Mr. President.”   
  
I flip to another page in my Middle East planner. “Now, I need to figure out which of these Iraqi assholes to back…”   
  
“They’re all scum, Mr. President. Even the ones who aren’t in Tehran’s pocket are trying to run their little fiefdoms as corrupt hellholes.”   
  
“All of them?”   
  
“All of them.”   
  
“Hmm.” I tap my knee and turn to the final person in the room--my new PR chief, Fatima. A plump woman with light brown skin, some friend of Annie’s who my admin brought on after her Tahiti trip. “What’s the risk of backing al-Sadr?”   
  
“Well, you’d be handing the Republicans ammunition, sir.” She scratches her checkered-print hijab with a grimace. “al-Sadr’s on the radical side and staunchly nationalist, anti-American and anti-Iran. A safer choice would be a moderate, but they’re all scum and would be unlikely to help build a proper state as you’ve stated. That bites you a few years down the line, and that could be a nasty October surprise. Better to just meet with the Grand Ayatollah and give a joint statement asking the Iraqi people to have faith in...well, what they can call a government.”   
  
“Mmh.” I grimace. “Not fond of this but if needs must. We roll with this plan. Syria?”   
  
“No significant change,” Annie reports. “You’ll want to lean on the Turks soon without making them flip to Russia. This is a balancing act, but they are anti-Kurdish, Erdogan’s looking to legitimize his rule as  _de facto_  Supreme Leader, and there are Turkish military assets capable of taking out Kurdish-held positions east of the Euphrates--which is now  _de facto_  the Syrian/Kurdish border, for the most part.”   
  
“So the Kurds are pinned between the mess of Iraq, the shithole of Assad, and hostile Turkey. Bold place to begin spreading the Revolution. Assassinating Assad?”   
  
“Risky on a good day,” Vinnie notes.   
  
“If we get caught, it would significantly raise tensions with Russia,” Fatima concurs.   
  
“Right. Goddamn it, I just want the place to be peaceful and democratic, but did the Brits and French draw sensible fucking borders back in 19-whenever? No, they did not. Fuckers. Jesus fucking christ. How the Hell am I supposed to deal with this mess? Millions dead and displaced, ISIS destroyed billions of dollars of ancient relics--what a fucking disaster Obama left me with. Jesus fuck.” I run a hand through my toupee. “Fuck this noise. Executive order time, I want to take in more Syrian refugees.  _All_  of the Syrian refugees we can get. Put the addict kids to work building basic homes for them. See if we can’t get a few willing to stay out of it. Every new American we can get is a good one, after all”   
  
“MAGA immigration, sir,” Fatima says loyally.   
  
“That’s good, somebody remind me to use that line.” I grope for the drinks and come back with some grape juice. “Annie, get me an admin who knows legalese. I’m executive ordering the fuck out of this shit.   
  
“Now, let’s work on domestic shit. Time to fix Eddycatin’, Commerce, and uh, uh, uh, th’ other one.”   
  
“Jesus christ,” Vinnie groans. “That joke’s six years old!”   
  
“Just means it’s six years more refined. More to the point, we gotta fix Education and the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Starting by renaming the latter. I’m thinking ‘Bureau of apologizing for centuries of racist dickhole moves and war crimes’ would be a good starting point.”   
***  
 _January 10th. Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, South Dakota._  
  
“Who the Hell are those idiots standing around with guns and barbecue?” I ask, peeking out the window of my bus and seeing a bunch of armed white guys in civilian clothes arguing with the Secret Service a little ways from where the crowd’s finishing gathering. A flag flies behind them; the Stars and Stripes with a darker red fist in the middle of the stripes. “Militia goons?”   
  
“They call themselves the Revolutionary Patriotic Defense Forces,” Annie explains as my minions dress me. “They’re a bunch of ex-military guys who support your policies and think you’re the nation’s last line of defense against a literal Nazi takeover. Thus the guns, they’re here because they want to defend you from assassination attempts, or at least that’s what they claim.”   
  
“You buy that?”   
  
She nods. “Yeah. They brought barbecue and they’re offering it to the Native Americans and Secret Service, so they’re at least willing to do outreach.”   
  
“Lemme guess, I have to wait until they’re disarmed?”   
  
“That’s correct.”   
  
Ugh. I scratch my toupee with a sigh and take another look. At least the would-be “defense forces” are keeping their guns holstered. “Looks like Vinnie’s making progress.”   
  
“We’ll just have to wait and see.”   
  
I end up starting fifteen minutes late, but Vinnie convinces the dinguses to sheepishly turn over their guns, so I’m finally allowed out. Of course, I get right to my usual.   
  
“WHAT UP, ‘MURICA?!” I bray, dressed in a TNG-era Starfleet Command-division uniform and a bald cap. “COMRADE DONNIE’S HERE TO TALK SOME SHIT!” I grab a bottle of grape juice from a minion and guzzle it, then belch loudly. “OK. So, I ain’t talked about this much yet, but I think Native Americans fucking rock. Red Cloud in particular, he was fucking awesome. Kicked US ass for years, a really kickass leader.” I belch again, quieter this time. “Anyway, the tribe here, great folks, they wanted to grow hemp for industrial purposes but that shithead Dubya Bush fucked with them over it. Fuck the Shrub. So, here’s my latest executive order.” I snap my fingers, and a minion pulls up a scroll and unrolls it for me.   
  
“You can grow all the goddamn hemp you like and so can anyone else who lives on a reservation,” I say, and sign the order. “Fuck the Shrub. Oh, and you lot can all consider the Dakota Access Pipeline dead. Comrade Donnie knows that we have to get un-hooked from fossil fuels anyway. We can’t be hooked on fucking oil, suckling the teat of the goddamn Saudis. MAGA energy independence! MAGA green power! MAGA Native Americans! Great people.” I scratch my ass. “Hey, do you guys think that MAGA’s getting old? Should I like, add something to it? POTUSMAGA, maybe?”   
  
Confused muttering.   
  
“Break the Chains?”   
  
“Everybody’s already chanting that at your rallies!” some lady calls from the audience.   
  
“...point.” I shrug. “I’ll figure something out. Anyway, I’m going to be working with Native community leaders to help reform the archaic and stupid system of bantustan--I mean, reservation--’justice’ that fucks over our great Native citizens and especially Native women, who keep getting fucked over by the tribal police’s stupid inability to deal with non-Native offenders and the byzantine arrangement that every goddamn case goes through, but I don’t want to just bulldoze EVERYTHING and accidentally, you know, fuck over Native Americans while trying to help fix the mess. So, yeah, uh, ANNIE! I forgot to mention this, but go sign me up for a meeting with LaDonna Allard, we’re ending the Dakota Access Pipeline and then, I dunno, fixing this whole goddamn mess, that sorta thing. Get all the native activists, especially women, you can find, OK?”   
  
My admin pinches the bridge of her nose but gives me a thumbs up. There are a few scattered cheers from the audience.   
  
“So on top of that, I want to remind everybody of my awesome plan to make our education system great! MAGA EDUCATION! We’re going to double teachers’ salaries, encourage STEM education and liberal arts, promote learning of real American history--like how Tecumseh was a hero and the Confederacy stood entirely for slavery--get some federal funding to support Native language studies--ideally I’d like every American to know at least one Native language by 2030 with a decent amount of competency, but that’s a stretch goal--and while I’m at it get bilingual education in Spanish and Arabic going across the board to ease immigrant kids into English, help assimilate more people better into our collec--uh, our America.” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, got a little too into the whole Star Trek motif there for a minute. We are the Borg, and all that. Anyway! The boys from the  _Work For America, If You’re Man Enough!_  program, they’ll be coming through here after they get done fixing Puerto Rico, and they’ll be building some power infrastructure and better medical services! And a statue of Red Cloud, to boot. Man was fucking badass.”   
  
An idea hits me. “Unless you guys want to build the statue yourself. I dunno. Whatever works. Anyway, I do want to eliminate the Bureau of Indian Affairs and fold it into the Department of Justice, include more Native Americans in the justice system. I mean, Hell, some of our greatest heroes were Natives. Like Ernest Evans, who I’ve ordered Mattis to name a carrier after. He was a real American hero, half Cherokee and a quarter Creek, led the heroes of Taffy 3 to glorious victory over the most powerful battleship fleet ever assembled. Ernest Evans charged the fucking Japanese battleship  _Yamato_ , a battlewagon bigger than any other battleship ever built, with 18-inch guns and armor thicker than that on any other battleship, ever, and he charged that battleship in a flimsy-ass little tin-can destroyer that was outweighed and outgunned by a couple orders of magnitude! That man  _earned_  his Medal of Honor like a real American should! And Jim Thorpe! Or Wa-Tho-Huk, that was his given name. Greatest athlete in the history of American football. And decathlon. And baseball. And pentathlon, and...you get the idea, man was a bad-ASS! Why does nobody talk about him more? We should have a statue of him at every football stadium, you know? MAGA Native Americans! Yo, Annie! Remind me to call Mattis and make sure we’re good on naming that carrier after Ernest Evans! MAGA veterans!”   
  
I pause to take a drink, and the only sound is wind as people gape at me. I raise an eyebrow and give the crowd a look. “What? Native Americans have gotten the shaft for centuries. Time we at least made an effort to turn that shit around. MAGA equality!”   
  
The clapping starts slowly, but I get some good cheers. Including from the guys in the back.   
  
Oh, right.   
  
“Also, uh, to you visitors in the back--I don’t need extra defending, OK? Yes, I was nearly assassinated twice but the Secret Service have tightened security again and Vinnie saved me both times. Comrade Donnie’s in good hands, fellow patriots. Thanks for bringing barbecue, though, I’m told it’s tasty. MAGA equality, MAGA freedom!”   
  
Here goes nothing.   
***  
 _January 15th. The White House._  
  
“Listen to me, Bennett,” I snarl into the phone. “I don’t care if this is meddling into your shitty little apartheid state’s sovereign affairs. You keep your racist mouth shut and your bigoted ass toeing the fucking party line, understand? Barkat’s putting more at risk than any leader since Rabin, and don’t think I’m not aware of the hand your intelligence services had in promoting far-right activity around the time of Rabin’s murder. You racist piece of shit. So, let me make myself perfectly fucking clear. If you try to spring a snap election and start pumping out the racist propaganda,  _I will end Israel’s economy_ , and I will do so without a second of doubt.  _Got it_?”   
  
“ _Fuck you, Trump_ ,” Naftali Bennett hisses over the phone. “ _I’m not some Arab sand-monkey you can impress with a few threats--now that Netanyahu’s out, I OWN a third of the Knesset! When I’m done with him, that traitor Barkat will be the most hated man in Israel, the voters will think he fuckes raghead bitches, I’ll have the IDF crushing those bedouin savage squatters like a grape in two weeks, and that capitulation deal you forced down our throats will be deader than Hillary’s political career. And if you think you can stop me, I’d like to see you threaten me when Barkat’s a cooling corpse and I have the nuclear codes…_ ”   
  
“If you try to pull a full-on coup on Barkat, you will die,” I promise him, deadly serious. It’s a jump up the threat scale but I’m so fucking tired of the Israelis’ bullshit, so fuck it. And fuck Bennett, too. “If Barkat dies, you die. If you try some stunt like having him crippled, you die. Do you understand me? I’m not talking sanctions, or pulling back the funding, I’m talking a CIA wetwork squad icing your ass before you can make a move.”   
  
“ _How **dare**  you…_”   
  
“Shut up and listen for once in your life, you racist, hypocritical little cockgoblin. Here’s the way the world’s going to work. Nir Barkat is going to stand up on a stage with the leaders of Fatah and Hamas. Together, they will sign a multilateral peace treaty to ensure the stability of the Israel-Palestine region and the safety of the civilians that inhabit the area. That treaty will be followed and obeyed by the governments and peoples of Israel and Palestine. There will be no more Israeli ethnic cleansing and oppression of Palestinians. There will be no more glorified mortar rounds launched from Gaza. Israel and Palestine will use the confederal system to negotiate their disputes. There will be no more ethnic or religious violence or strife. Twenty-five years from now, Israelis and Palestinians will live side by side, go to the same schools, take field trips to museums about the history of the Israeli occupation and why it must never be repeated, make friends, have schoolyard fights, go to college together, get jobs at the same workplace, argue over politics, fuck, fall in love, get houses on the same street, have kids in the same hospitals, and do every other thing that normal people do, with the insanity of 1948 through 2018 a distant and regretful memory.   
  
“If there is any more violence, I will occupy the whole fucking region and eat the PR blow and troop losses. This bullshit has gone on long enough. And, Naftali?  _You will not fuck this up for the world_. If you try, if I get even the slightest hint that you tried to fuck up this peace process,  _I will have you murdered and your body dumped in the ocean without a trace of remorse_. Got it?”   
  
“ _You don’t have the resources to…_ ”   
  
I tap a few keys on my computer. “Check your email. It’s a live feed.”   
  
He shuts up for a moment (thank fuck for that), then sucks in a breath. “ _How did you…_ ”  
  
“What, you think Barkat’s an idiot? He knows you’re a backstabbing little snake and helped me get an observation team in. The wetwork boys, of course, were my own idea. Don’t bother trying to trace the angle, they move regularly and use remote cameras.” I don’t mention the other spies I’ve slipped in--some of them Barkat doesn’t know about, and  _that_  could be a problem. “Shut up and learn to tolerate an equal peace, Bennet. If you don’t--enjoy the lead poisoning.”   
  
“ _You **will**  pay for this, Trump,_” Bennett snarls. “ _You threaten me and mine, I will--_ ”   
  
“Who cares about anyone other than you? I don’t hurt innocent people, your family’s safe no matter what. Be a man and learn to live with your neighbors without violence, damn it.” I pop a handful of M&Ms into my mouth and chew noisily. “If you don’t, if you assassinate Barkat or launch a coup against him, I’ll have you murdered.”   
  
“ _You...you...you antisemitic little…_ ”   
  
“Oh,  _please_ ,” I snap. “You think that word means anything coming from you? You called Bernie Sanders an ‘antisemitic self-hating pseudo-Jew’ last week for endorsing the peace plan. Bernie Sanders whose uncle was fucking murdered by the Nazis. Fuck off, Bennett.”   
  
“ _I’m a powerful man, you traitorous piece of shit! Judea and Samaria are rightful Israeli soil by right of conquest! I won’t capitulate to a bunch of sister-fucking wife-beating Koran-thumping mongrels and their idiot American puppet!_ ”   
  
“If you fuck up the peace deal, I will have you murdered,” I reiterate. “My people have been saying that they want me to take this job more seriously. This is what that looks like. Your country will stop murdering people and trying to colonize the West Bank. If it doesn’t, I will destroy your economy. If you are in any way responsible for the failure of this peace process, I will pick up my phone, call the CIA, and have you murdered like Obama had bin Laden iced.”   
  
Bennett fumes in silence for a whole minute. I noisily eat more M&Ms. Finally, he speaks up. “ _Fuck you_.”   
  
“Are we clear, Naftali?”   
  
“ _You son of a bitch._ ”   
  
“ ** _Are we fucking clear?_** ”   
  
He curses in Hebrew, then snarls, “ _Clear. I will have my allies in the Knesset vote for your plan._ ”   
  
“Good boy,” I congratulate him without warmth or mirth. “Don’t backstab me, Naftali. Now fuck off and spend time with your family. Remind yourself that they need Daddy around.”   
  
I hang up and swivel around in my chair to face the room. “So?”   
  
Mattis is unreadable. “That was a risk, Mr. President. Not to mention a clear provocation.”   
  
“Do you think it was unnecessary?”   
  
He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “Bennett’s opposition to the deal would’ve killed the final version, and that final version is a framework that should appease both sides in time. You used a hammer instead of a scalpel but I’ll admit that given the mess that is the Knesset it may have been necessary.”   
  
“Thanks, Mattis. Vinnie?”   
  
My bodyguard is silent for a long moment. “I concur with Secretary Mattis. I just hope your good luck holds.”   
  
“Fair enough. Annie? Fatima?”   
  
“This could be a PR disaster if it hits the news,” Fatima notes. “We’ll need to be ready to counter with our recording. The part where Bennett threatened to have Barkat murdered should be enough to destroy him if worst comes to worst.”   
  
“Do we send Barkat a copy of the whole thing? I don’t want to scare him off, but I also have to trust this guy.”   
  
“Barkat’s a right-winger but not as much of a nationalist as Bennett,” Mattis points out. “On top of that, that crazy sonofabitch just threatened to murder his own Prime Minister. I think Barkat could be talked around on the hit squad issue. Besides, he needs to know that Bennett was considering a coup either way.”   
  
“I agree,” Annie says. “You thrive on crazy. And sending Barkat a copy in confidence is just crazy enough to work.”   
  
“Vinnie?”   
  
“Reasonable plan,” my henchman agrees. “Frankly, strong-arming these idiots into a peace deal was never going to be the most popular thing with either side. Your stance brought the Palestinians over--well, most of them, anyway--but the Israeli nationalists are going to have a hard time swallowing anything that isn’t Israel annexing the West Bank and driving out the Palestinians. That Barkat even stuck with this plan shows just how scared he is--of you, of another intifada, of economic sanctions, of a PR blow, whatever. He’s about as moderate as Likud gets, but that’s still Likud, he wouldn’t even have played ball this far if Netanyahu’s plan hadn’t gone literally the worst possible way for Israel.”   
  
“It definitely helps that Netanyahu tried to have you assassinated,” Mattis agrees. “Also, Secretary Walker sent me an update just before that call; she’s failed to talk Corbyn down, Britain’s introducing a sanction resolution to the UN in an hour.”   
  
“Annie, tell her to veto it as long as Israel plays ball. And let Barkat know how  _that_ works.”   
  
“On it.”   
  
“Fatima, analysis?”   
  
“Corbyn won’t like it, but he’s a fellow traveler on economic policy. You’ll need to call him personally, I think.”   
  
“Concur,” Mattis says.   
  
“Otherwise, I think the analysts will understand, and they’ll get it on the airwaves. And, well, it helps that Netanyahu tried to kill you. Especially that he used neo-Nazis. That’s caused a major shift in public opinion, the latest Gallup poll has over 50% of respondents saying that Israel is primarily to blame for the Israel-Palestine conflict, and nearly 70% are on board with your peace deal plan. That’s holding steady, too--and it’s adding to your good numbers on foreign policy. You’re seen as “strong” and “decisive”.”   
  
“Any major opposition?”   
  
“A number of Christian fundamentalists are lockstep against your plan, I believe that has to do with their belief in a particular interpretation of the Book of Revelations. Basically, they support Israel unconditionally because they believe the Bible says so. There remains a considerable pro-Israel lobby and contingent within the political class who remain unconvinced of your plan’s feasibility, too.”   
  
“As long as I have the public, I have Congress by the balls. We move ahead.” I nod to Mattis. “I want those arms sale deals bundled up and ready to go by the time of the signing. Annie, are we on schedule?”   
  
“March 30th, sir.”   
  
“Good. Fatima, explain why that’s important for my purposes in case Vinnie and Mattis don’t know?”   
  
“It’s the birthday of an important Muslim religious figure, and the first day of Passover. This year, anyway, neither use the Gregorian calendar. Hopefully by holding the ceremony in front of the Western Wall on a day important to Judaism and Islam we can reduce the risk of sectarian violence.”   
  
“And of course Barkat will be providing security on the Israeli side, us on the Palestinian side.”   
  
“I still think it’s risky,” Mattis growls, “but it’s the best idea I’ve heard to settle this Goddamn mess. But, Mr. President? This had better work.”   
  
“Believe me, Mattis, I literally have nightmares about it not working.”   
***  
 _January 21st._  
  
“ _I can’t believe you talked me into this_ ,” Greg Berlanti says over the phone. “ _I can’t believe that I’m actually ENJOYING this. You’re a fucking madman, Trump, and I love it._ ”   
  
“Greg, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times, my friends call me Comrade Donnie. How’s the Mr.?”   
  
“ _Great! Marital bliss is real, it turns out. You’re serious about this Comrade Commie stuff?_ ”   
  
“Yeah, I think it’s fucking hilarious.” I take a sip of my grape juice. “I think we can sell it, too. Speaking of next season--you wanted to talk to me about  _Legends_?”   
  
“ _I wanted you to whip up a few scripts for the team to take a look at. They’re good people, run a disciplined room, but somehow I think your particular brand of madness will help immensely. Do you mind?_ ”   
  
“Dude, I’ll need, like, a thousand pounds of cocaine to match the shit you put in in my last life. I got an info download of 2018, you put out an episode where Zari got turned into a cat, the blondes of the crew plus Gideon were legally-distinct-from-Charlie’s-Angels, and the guys were grimdark Rambo/Ghostbusters expies.”   
  
Berlanti is silent for a whole thirty seconds. Then,  
  
“ _Wow_.”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“ _Jesus christ, they must’ve been on some good drugs_.”   
  
“It was very popular with the fandom, too.”   
  
“ _I mean, I gotta get me some of those. Jesus._ ”   
  
“We could make it even crazier, of course, if we do that whole, thing we’re not talking about again.”   
  
“ _I mean, I’ve done stuff, it’s Hollywood, but holy shit man, that’s some good shit._ ”   
  
“I’m thinking, like, time-travelling Neandertals, mine the Shazam stable for villains, always thought Ibac was hilarious, an entire episode of just killing Hitler over and over, resulting in increasingly insane alternate universes, and then they go back to Salem and Ava asks why all the women are looking at Sara and tittering and all the men are grabbing pitchforks and torches because of that one gag from season 2’s opener, then they write fanfic of themselves but Mxyzptlk or somebody shows up and turns it into realities and the real Legends have to outwit their fanfic versions of themselves, then Heatwave becomes a bestselling author of trashy romance novels…”   
  
“ _We need to do some of that stuff, Mr. President, it might even be enough to make you sane._ ”   
  
“...and maybe we bring in some Wonder Woman minor characters like the Duke of Deception or something, dude that would be awesome, his illusion powers could do all kinds of hilarious shit…”   
  
“ _And I thought giving Caity the OK to just straight-up hit on Helen of Troy for ten minutes when she went over the director’s head to me was insane, holy cow, we can literally do anything with this show, make sure it has heart to it, and we’ll be rich!_ ”   
  
“...we can do basically anything as long as it’s heartwarming and sweet, Greg, we’ll win fucking Oscars!”   
  
“ _Mr. President, I love you. Platonically_.”   
  
“Greg, I fucking love you, man.”   
  
We pause for breath and let our brains catch up with each other. “Holy shit,” we say simultaneously.   
  
“So, the Legends write fanfic of themselves and some idiot turns it into a legit thing they have to deal with?”   
  
“ _Comedy gold. Want to do whatever drugs the writing team was on last...uh, last 2018?_ ”   
  
“Sure, just give me warning. I’ll need to arrange things. Drop by in April or something. Early in the month. I’m gonna need a fucking break after that Israel bullshit.”   
  
“ _Sounds good to me--call me if anything comes up. I still need you to direct those last two episodes, though._ ”   
  
“Yeah, that’s why I said break. Between those and this Israel negotiation bullshit, I’m gonna have a tight schedule. Have to go on tour advocating for the education overhaul I want to implement, too. MAGA education, by the way. That’s my new catchphrase.”   
  
“ _It might need some work._ ”   
  
“Eh, everything’s a work in progress. OK, I gotta go. Ciao!”   
  
“ _Good-bye, Mr. President. Stay sane._ ”   
  
I hang up, chuckling, and head to my computer. Time to actually do some work.   
  
I’ve got a lot of diplomacy coming up.   
***  
 _Moscow, Russian Federation. January 23rd._  
  
Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin clutched his coffee mug with shaking hands, eyes bloodshot with stress and rage. “Is it ready?” he hissed, and Igor Korobov wiped sweat from his eyes.   
  
“The primary plan is in motion,  _Vozhd_ ,” the toady assured his dictator. “Kushchyenko is in place with an alias. Polonium will be difficult so we are instead moving ahead with a cunning combination of botulinum toxin and thallium. We slip it into his food and they’ll be so busy treating the botulinum that they won’t find the thallium!”   
  
“And what if they discover the thallium?” Putin snarled, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. Korobov gulped like a toad, mopping his forehead again. “Remember, Igor, if you fuck this up, if Trump is able to sanction Russia,  _you will disappear_. Am I clear?”   
  
“ _Da, Vozhd_ ,” Korobov whimpered. “We are also carefully planning sabotage to the Arab refrigerators. That will provide an excuse for the botulism.”   
  
“I want alternative plans. As much as killing that son of a bitch would be satisfying, I want a less... _nuclear_  option. Something that will ruin him even if it does not kill him” The leader of Russia ground his teeth in rage. “God, I wish I could kill him and have done with. If he were not an American I would have had him hit with polonium already. Damn him! Damn him and his god-damned Twitter!”   
  
“ _Vozhd_ , we do have an alternative option. We think that it may be possible to trick him into fucking a man that we have procured for…”   
  
Korobov ducked as Putin threw the coffee mug at his head. “ _Idiot! Blockhead! Moron!_ He does not care, you fucking baboon! He is immune to the classics because he doesn’t fucking care about his image! I want you to break him, damn it. Calling him gay will not do that.”   
  
Korobov maintained enough presence of mind to not ask his leader why Putin cared more about the allegations of homosexuality than Trump would. “ _Da, Vozhd_. Shall we release the golden shower tape?”   
  
“Well, if you’d done that at this time  _last year_ , you fucking waste of life, it might’ve done something.” Putin's unblinking gaze stared balefully forth from his scowling face. “When he released it to that John Oliver bastard with commentary, he sucked all of the power out of it.” The dictator stood, and Korobov quailed from his gimlet eyes. “I don’t care how you fix this.  _Fix it_. Ruin him, kill him, I don’t care what you end up doing, just get him out of my fucking business, you ape.”   
  
“ _Da, Vozhd_!”   
  
“And tell me first so that I can confirm the plan, or I’ll have you disappeared. Do not fail me, Korobov.”   
  
“ _Da, Vozhd_ ,” whimpered the intel chief, thoroughly emasculated by his leader’s rage.   
  
“Get out.”   
  
Korobov was happy to flee. Putin slumped pulled a bottle of vodka from a drawer in his desk. “Fucking useless morons,” the Russian dictator muttered. “Incompetents. I’m surrounded by incompetents.” He chugged a few mouthfuls of the vodka, then coughed, gasping for breath in his rage. “I will break you,  _Comrade Donnie Trump_ ,” Putin wheezed. “I swear it!” 


	2. Chapter 2: They Want You Poor And Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comrade Donnie does his most outrageous deeds yet, and his movement is getting out of control!

_January 27th, 2018. Red Lodge, Montana._    
  
“ **MAGA education**!” bellows Senator John Tester, the crowd roaring along with him as a bunch of guys calling themselves the “Patriotic Socialist Freedom Militia” pass out hamburgers and pork chops as fast as they can off to the side. Red Lodge’s school baseball field is full to bursting, and I hear Vinnie saying something into his earpiece as he and I stand a few feet back from the Senator. “I see you folks are ready for some reform!”   
  
“ **REVOLUTION**!” shout a few people from the crowd over the cheers.   
  
“Comrade Donnie and I both understand that this great nation deserves the best eddycatin’ humanly possible!” Tester continues with a grin. “And today, he’s gonna tell all of you how we’re gonna get that done!” The crowd cheers as Tester gives them another moment. A big, burly Montana boy with a broad grin and a couple of missing fingers from a farm accident, he’s solidly popular even in this red-leaning part of the state. Exactly the kind of guy I need stumping for the Red flag.   
  
So it’s only fair I contribute to his re-election campaign.   
  
“Vote for me, and I promise you, by the time I’m next up for re-election Montana’s schools will be the best in the nation. Our teachers will be fully unionized and paid fairly, and if a bunch of rich bastards with gold-plated toilet seats try to starve our public schools to fund their private charter crap, I’ll sic the full force of Federal law on those SOBs like I’d sic my dogs on a cattle rustler!” More cheers. “Now here’s Comrade Donnie, to give you some details!”   
  
The cheers turn into a roar, then a chant of “ ** _BREAK THE CHAINS_**!” and “ ** _MAGA SOCIALISM_**!”. I step up, taking a bow in my overalls. I look like fuckin’ Captain Underpants...if he wore overalls and a shitty toupee, anyway.   
  
OK, bad analogy.   
  
Still a good movie.   
  
“Welcome, welcome!” I shout into the mic as the cheers die down. “This is your bro, Comrade Donnie! Obviously. I mean, I’ve got the fucking Secret Service guys and everything. Anyway! You folks want to hear how we’re gonna fix education?”   
  
There’s a roar of “ ** _YES!!!_** ” that I swear to god makes the bleachers shake.   
  
“Alrighty, then!  **MINIONS**! BRING OUT THE ROADMAP!”   
  
The big board is rolled out, and the cameras set up to put it up on the big screen my minions drove in. “OK! So, first off, our education system is not the best in the world. Expensive college, hypercompetitive admissions into Ivies of dubious value, lingering cultural anti-intellectualism, and rich shitheads trying to create an income-segregated charter school system run by, for, and about rich shitheads, have all contributed to the decay of American public schools. By focusing on writing skills and STEM over liberal arts and instituting a system of incompetent standardized tests administered by for-profit corpo scum, the Bushleaguer and later Obama only made the problem worse. Science and math are good things, but the use of corpo-run standardized tests has wrecked the system as it stands, and the fucking corpos are the only ones who benefit!   
  
“Comrade Donnie has a comprehensive plan to fix this. First off, is the Restore Our History plan. The current decentralized system of pre-college history book purchasing allows corrupt political hacks to determine what our kids our taught, leading to the prevalence of racist lies like ‘Slavery wasn’t that bad’ and ‘Jefferson Davis was a noble man’. Spoiler alert, slavery was just another way for rich corpo scum to divide the proletariat and enrich themselves, and Jeff Davis was a plutocratic incompetent who robbed working men for his own wallet. Fuck ‘em.   
  
“My proposal returns control of textbook ordering to the teachers. A council of American teachers will be established, consisting of delegates from each state’s unionized educators, with the responsibility of determining which textbooks will be ordered for American schools each year. They will also have the mandate to establish nonbinding guidelines for annual education goals, so that we aren’t teaching kids the same crap over and over every year.   
  
“This should solve a lot more problems than just history, but improving our arts education is another matter that needs to be tackled. Why does this matter? Because one of the ways the rich segregate themselves from the poor is with symbols of status. These status symbols can be anything from expensive jewelry, to vacation homes on islands, to knowing certain fancy art and literature things. You ain’t worth spit to a bourgeois CEO motherfucker unless you’re wearing a Versace suit with designer gold cufflinks and can complain about the performance of Shakespeare you saw last week not being as good as the one you saw in London.   
  
“A key part of my program to break capitalism forever, destroy the social caste system, and bring us into the great socialist future where not one single American is poor, where no American goes to bed hungry while some rich sack of shit throws a party with gold-plated toilet seats and imported silk curtains, is to bring some arts education to Middle America. Hell, maybe in 40 years we’ll finally have more than one town that makes fucking movies. Hollywood is such a fucking pit, so sad, very low-energy, always pretending to be progressive, but when it comes to genuinely progressive movies, smart shit like  _Get Out_  and  _Sorry to Bother You_ , do they get the awards they deserve? No! Fucking Hollywood gives Oscars to safe shit like  _Crash_  and  _The Shape Of Water_ and that kind of crap--OK,  _The Shape of Water_  is pretty good, Del Toro’s rocked since the start, I still love kicking back every once and a while to watch  _Hellboy_  with my bro Vinnie here, but you get what I’m saying. It’s less challenging to the corporate imperialist status quo.   
  
“So, fuck Hollywood. Fuck those rich old leeches! We need a more diverse arts scene. We need folks from Montana getting into the movies, we need folks from all-American cities like Detroit, Austin, Atlanta, Providence, Bozeman, all kinds of folks from all walks of life, not just aging rich white shitheads with lots of money who control who gets to make movies. The asshole who’s in charge of  _Star Trek_ , now, Alex Kurtzman? Fucking hack! Very low-energy, sad! His so-called work insults the viewer’s intelligence, and I will have my revenge!”   
  
“Uh, Mr. President,” Tester says in confusion.   
  
“Right!” I clear my throat. “Anyway, we’re gonna get some quality arts education, then establish a national free college fund. We’ll pay for that in part with college athletics--I’m going to see if I can’t  _force_  the NCAA to do the right thing and stop using American students as  _de facto_ slaves in that lucrative business that is college sports. We’ll use the money to pay for free college, that and some of the budget increase I’m throwing into the Department of Education.   
  
“By instituting this free college fund, by improving pay and job benefits for our teachers, by improving our history curriculums, giving arts programs more funding and support, and by redoubling our efforts to promote math, science, and engineering education, we will Make America’s Education System Great Again! Best in the world, I guarantee it. Very bigly, very beautiful! MAGA Education!   
  
“Finally, we will tackle the corpo scum who cook up shitty standardized tests on the government’s dime to judge our students. Fuck that! I will nationalize the corporations that run standardized tests, I will put them under the purview of an elected board of educators like the history books, and I will make sure that they no longer charge for standardized tests so that any kid, no matter how rich or poor, can take the SATs for college. Break the chains!   
  
“Now, some people, like that fucking turtle-faced baboon Mitch McConnell, who I call Mitch McCrackhead or Mitch McTurtle because I don’t like his face, shitheads like Mitch McCrackhead say that we can’t pay for the Department of Education! They want to slash the education budget, they want our kids poor and stupid so the next generation will be poor and stupid! And you want to know why they want you poor and stupid? Because stupid people are easy dupes for the corpos! Mitch McCrackhead and the Republicans are paid off by corpo scum to make Middle America poor and stupid by destroying our education system so our kids don’t learn anything! FUCK Mitch McCrackhead! MAGA Education!   
  
“Do YOU want to be poor and stupid?” I shout, hoping I’ve read the crowd right.   
  
“ ** _NO_**!” they roar back.   
  
“Will you let Mitch McCrackhead and his corpo puppet-masters make your kids poor and stupid?”   
  
“ ** _NO_**!”   
  
“WHAT WILL YOU DO?”   
  
“BREAK THE CHAINS!” they roar.   
  
“DAMN RIGHT!” I roah back. “Write your fucking Congresscritters! They work for US, not the corpos! FUCK the corpos! Down with capitalism! MAGA labor! MAGA education! BREAK THE CHAINS FOR SYNDICALISM!”   
  
“BREAK THE CHAINS! BREAK THE CHAINS! FREE COLLEGE! FREE COLLEGE!”   
  
“FUCK YEAH!” I scream.   
  
Some days, I fucking love this job.   
  
***  
  
_January 29th, 2018._  
  
  
  
  
***  
_February 1st. The White House._  
  
“Thanks for joining me on this call,” I say, the secure teleconference showing Mahmoud Abbas, Israeli Prime Minister (formerly interim PM) Nir Barkat, and the Hamas higher-up who was flown out to negotiate with me previously. “You said that you’d reached a deal on the settlements?”   
  
“Provisionally,” Barkat replies. “And pursuant to several assurances by the United States and UN Security Council.”   
  
“I’m more than open to reasonable commitments. What’ve you got for me?”   
  
“We are willing to give the settlers a choice between becoming Palestinian citizens and deportation to Israel,” Abbas says. “After discussion with Mr. Barkat, it has been agreed that a UN observer and peacekeeper presence will be acceptable to avoid ethnic violence.”  
  
“They want guards for five years at least,” Mashal, the Hamas negotiator, explains. “While ideally the colonists would be removed from their illegal conquest-forts, Hamas is willing to concede this point in the interests of international peace and in recognition of the logistical difficulties of relocating hundreds of thousands of colonists.”   
  
“I want no deaths, no ethnic cleansing, and fair treatment under the law,” Barkat adds. “It’s not going to be popular, the settlers are mostly hardliners, hence why they’re willing to live in--” and he nods to where I assume Mashal is on his screen, “--illegal colonies.”   
  
“That was fast, I was expecting you to take longer to cave.”   
  
He grimaces. “It’s not my ideal solution, but I rather like my country having a functioning economy and a living population, and I’m tired of seeing dead children and bombed-out buildings. Besides. After that incident with Bennett, I have...re-analyzed the importance of settlers to my electoral coalition.”   
  
Bennett was being an ass, putting the peace process at risk, and threatened to have Barkat murdered, so Barkat’s turned on him. Couldn’t happen to a sweeter guy. “OK. Abbas, your people are going to accept this?”   
  
He mirrors Barkat. “It’s not going to be popular, and I don’t trust the settlers an inch, but if they obey Palestinian laws, I think people can come around eventually.”   
  
“Pursuant of course to Israel and Palestine passing some pretty sweeping laws to protect minorities. Good.” I nod, and mesh my fingers in front of me. “OK. Good deal. I’ll have State get in touch with the UN. You guys keep me posted--and hey. Congratulations on negotiating. We’re where Arafat and Rabin were 20 years ago right now, only this time there’s not going to be some far-right nutjob shooting the Israeli prime minister to disrupt things.”   
  
Barkat winces. “ _Please_  don’t jinx us. I like being alive, Mr. President.”   
  
“Ah, shit, sorry. Don’t worry; I’ll provide additional support for the treaty signing. If any hardliner assholes try to make a move, the US military will help the IDF give them a nasty case of lead poisoning.”   
  
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Mashal cuts in. “The old city is a very holy place in Islam, not to mention its importance to the Jews and Christians.”   
  
“No-one wants a battle in the al-Aqsa mosque,” Abbas agrees.   
  
“Yeah, no shit. Especially since the Grand Ayatollah al-Sistani is attending.”   
  
All three men freeze. “The Grand Ayatollah of Iraq?” Barkat asks.   
  
“Yup. He’s going to endorse the treaty and formally condemn violence on both sides. That ought to keep Hezbollah from getting ideas. The Pope wants to come, too. I’m still dredging for Sunni clerics to browbeat the Sunnis. We’re going to preface the ceremony with statements from the religious leaders condemning ethnoreligious violence, then each faction will have a leader give a speech--you guys get to sort out the order among yourselves--then I’ll say a few words, then we’ll sign the treaty. The plan’s basically to get more than half the world killing mad at anybody stupid enough to try to break up the event, and to lend some…”   
  
“...additional legitimacy to the treaty,” the three leaders finish for me, nodding along.   
  
“Clever,” Barkat notes. “I’ll talk with the Samaritans--there are only a few hundred of them, but they have lived in... _Israel-Palestine_ , for thousands of years. I know that a sense of history might risk setting the wrong mood, but--”   
  
“Go with it, provisionally. Mashal, Abbas?”   
  
“I have no immediate objections,” Abbas concurs. The Hamas guy nods in agreement.   
  
“Mr. Abbas and I can have our people find a local cleric willing to take a stand for the treaty,” Mashal adds. “We will make it clear that only statements in favor of the treaty will be acceptable.”   
  
“See if you can’t find some Druze leaders to show up and stand in solidarity, Barkat,” I add. “We’ve been taking in Yazidis as fast as I can get them retrieved because of the Daesh clusterfrakas, I’m sure there’s some mir or sheikh or something who’ll show up and say ‘killing people bad’ for us. This is good, this might actually work.   
  
“And, hey. Before we go. I want you guys to look at each other.” They do. “Take a minute and think; the Prime Minister of Israel and the leaders of Palestine just agreed on something and agreed to further discuss ways to reduce tensions. Next thing you know we’ll be discussing bilateral holy site visit arrangements.”   
  
“We, ah…” Barkat clears his throat. “Those are actually what we’ve been discussing in between the settlement debates. There are some concerns about how to deal with hypothetical crimes taking place on such trips, but we’re making progress.”   
  
“See? That. That right there, that is the fucking soul of progress. You fucking madmen, admittedly pushed along by this particular madman, did something all the conventional wisdom said was nuts.” I lean in. “So whenever some fucker says the peace process is doomed or tries to fuck it up, remember that you guys just did the fucking impossible.   
  
“And remember the millions of people depending on you to do the right thing, of course. I trust you to do it, but there’s millions more people who might not trust you to do so, and you need to prove it to them.”   
  
“We will make them proud,” Mashal promises.   
  
“Agreed,” Barkat concurs. “We will secure a mutually acceptable peace, or kill our careers trying.”   
  
“Good luck, guys. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go tweet verbal abuse at Vladimir Putin. Good luck on the continuing negotiations, and feel free to call me or Secretary Walker if anything comes up.”   
  
I hang up. Time to accuse Vlad’s daughter of being a prostitute, that certainly ought to wind him up.   
  
***  
  
_February 5th._  
  
  
  
  
  
“HELLO AGAIN, WEST VIRGINIA!” I bellow. Close to a thousand people here in Charleston bellow  _BREAK THE CHAINS!_  back at full volume. “MAGA Socialism! Ol’ Comrade Donnie’s here to tell you about this great lady running for Senate, Miss Paula Jean Swearengin! Paula Jean here, she hates the corpos and wants to fight for YOU! She’s running against Senator Manchin in the Democratic primary because he’s too close to the corpos, and we need to send a message to those fat-cat sons of bitches in Washington that they work for the People, not the other way around!   
  
“Irresponsible, greedy coal companies have bribed Senators and other Congresscritters for decades to strip away safety regulations, to help them screw over working Americans, poisoning our water and poisoning our air so they can make a quick buck off the sweat off our backs, letting our men get black lung and die so some rich shithead in the Hamptons can line his pocket! Well, no more!   
  
“As Paula Jean told me this morning, this ain’t a red state issue, this ain’t a blue state issue. This is an American issue. This here is the heartland of the good old US of A! West Virginia is the greatest state in the Union! Your ancestors fought for Honest Abe, told Richmond to go fuck themselves and fought for Lincoln, and Liberty, too! You were the vanguard of the Second American Revolution, it was the courage and sacrifice of West Virginia that brought our Union to victory over the forces of treasonous racist slavocracy in 1865! And now, we will lead a third American Revolution!   
  
“There is a great vision for this nation that I subscribe to, people. A new, revolutionary vision for America, with new jobs, clean air, equality for all, and power to the People! We will throw off the corporate yoke that forces us into dead-end jobs and screws over our kids! We will remake our school system into the best and the greatest that the world has ever seen! We will make Mark Zuckerberg and his corrupt fake-progressive buddies pay their fair share, and we will re-invest that money in the core of our great America!   
  
“WHO WANTS TO JOIN ME?”   
  
“ ** _BREAK THE CHAINS!_** ” the crowd roars. “ ** _MAGA POTUS!_** ”   
  
“Paula Jean! Are you with me?”   
  
The brunette holds her microphone up to her face. “All the way, Comrade Donnie! If I’m elected Senator, I’ll vote for free health care for every American, free college, and a fifteen dollar minimum wage! And just like Comrade Donnie, I won’t take a single gosh-darn cent from the corporations!”   
  
The crowd roars their approval. “ ** _BREAK THE CHAINS!_** ” comes the chant again, IWW flags waving openly. “ ** _DOWN WITH CAPITALISM!_** ”   
  
I lean back from my mic and over to whisper in the candidate’s ear. “Welcome to the big leagues, ma’am.”   
  
I step back and let her talk. Pretty standard stuff for the Revolution I’ve been pushing; new jobs, tax the rich, break up corporations and force them to play nice, Medicare for All, free college, all that good stuff. They don’t cheer for her quite as loudly as they do for me at first, but when Swearengin chokes up describing how her grandfather died from black lung, the entire room stands and doffs their hats. Then when she continues on into a rant against coal-industry abuses and the propaganda they use to divide the nation and direct anger away from themselves, they roar their  _Break the Chains!_ , so loud I’m afraid it’ll bring down the bleachers.   
  
“Nice one!” I congratulate the exhausted candidate as she steps back amid cheers, her speech over. “Trust me, you’ve got my full support. Pelosi won’t be happy, but don’t worry, I can kiss her ass.”   
  
“Thank you, Mr. President. I can’t tell you how much this…”   
  
“Then don’t,” I chuckle. “Save your energy for the fight. We’re bringing down big business. We’re spreading the Revolution.  _That’s_  what’s most important. Building that better future for our kids.”   
  
She straight-up salutes me. “With pleasure, Comrade Donnie.”   
  
I return it. “The pleasure’s all mine, Comrade Paula Jean. Break the chains!”   
  
We move into the crowd to glad-hand a bit, Vinnie a silent, grim shadow at my back. An older white man comes up, his teeth stained from tobacco and his face weathered from decades of hard work. “Mr. President,” he rasps, barely audible over the scrum.   
  
“Hey there, nice to meet you, uh…” I lean in as I shake his hand, trying not to inhale too much. Don’t want to be rude to a constituent, but tobacco odor makes me cough a lot.   
  
“William Miller, Mr. President, but I go by Billy Dean. Now, Mr. President, I ain’t voted for a Democrat for President for thirty years, I only voted for Manchin once, I ain’t never voted for a man who hangs out with them gays from California and acts like a gorram clown, but I gotta tell you, Mr. President, you saved my son.”   
  
“Oh, yeah? Work for America program?”   
  
“That’s the one,” Billy Dean confirms. “He ain’t a bad boy, Jefferson, just made some poor decisions. And with the economy bein’ as it is, you know, he was havin’ some trouble findin’ a job. Got hooked on that cocaine crap from Mexico. He was gonna go to jail, ten years they said. Ain’t no Miller in this town ever gone to jail, it’d have broken the poor boy. Now he’s writin’ me from Puerto Rico every week on the Internet, says he’s gonna learn a trade, become an electrician.”   
  
“Good money in that,” I note. “Especially with solar these days, putting those in’s gonna be lucrative in a decade or so.”   
  
“That’s what they say. Anyway, Mr. President, I just wanted to say, you got my vote. And I’ve been thinkin’, about how my pappy and grandpappy used to tell me ‘bout how my grandpappy fought an honest-to-God war against the bosses over in Kentucky way back in ‘31. My wife, her great-grandpappy fought with Bill Blizzard in Logan County when the bosses tried to cheat workin’ men. And I looked it up on the Internet when my boy Jefferson was using the Skype so we could hear each other’s voices, and I decided, if socialism was good enough for my grandpappy in ‘31, maybe it ain’t so bad. So I came down here today, and I listened to that young lady up there, and I thought to myself, Billy Dean, what’s so great about a coal job that can’t be replaced by some other job? And I realized, that whole, war on coal claptrap, that’s what you mean when you say the bosses and fat-cats want us divided. ‘Cause if I’m angry at some Massachusetts liberal or one of them California gays, I won’t notice when Bob Murray cuts my pay and blames it on the Feds while pocketing more cash, or I’ll blame Uncle Sam instead of Bob Murray if my brother dies in a mine. And that ain’t right.” He sniffles, and reaches out to shake my hand again. “So. You’ve got my vote, Mr. President, and so does that young lady Paula Jean. And I may not understand this environmental, global warming stuff, or all that social-justice whatever, but I know what’s good for a working man, and my boy and I are joining the IWW to fight for America. Mr. President.”   
  
I shake Billy Dean’s hand firmly, smiling for real. “Welcome to the Revolution, Comrade. We can use more good men like you. On the streets, running for office, Hell, just collecting signatures, it doesn’t matter. We need good men, and we’re glad for every one we get. Now, one suggestion I’d…”   
  
“Mr. President,” Vinnie says, tapping me on the shoulder. “We have a developing situation.”   
  
“The Hell?” I grimace. “Sorry, sir, I’ll have to get back to you. But good work doing the research! The more you know, the less the corpos and the Russians and whoever else can fuck with you!”   
  
The burly guys surrounding Billy Dean and me cheer their agreement. One of them, a giant Hell’s Angel type in a leather motorcycle jacket, is apparently so devoted to the Revolution that he has the Redneck Revolt logo tattooed on one massive shoulder and a red star on the other.   
  
Jesus fuck, this movement is growing fast.   
  
“We do Nevada next,” I tell Vinnie as he leads me out. “Then Georgia. Build our way up to Texas.”   
  
“That’s great, Mr. President,” my henchman says in my ear as he leads me to where Annie and Fatima stand, looking annoyed and worried, respectively. “But right now we need to worry about some of your supporters being arrested for attacking Klansmen with paintball guns.”   
  
“...what the  _fuck_?”   
  
***  
  
“I should not be laughing this much,” I chuckle as the video starts. “This is legit, Vinnie?”   
  
“Yes, Mr. President,” my henchman assures me. “The men involved have been charged with assault.”   
  
“Man, I wish it were ethical to pardon them,” I mutter, as on screen a burly white guy with a hint of stubble points the camera at himself.   
  
“ _Afternoon, folks. This is Sub-Commandant Ben Lieber of the American Red Guards Militia, broadcasting live from Durham, North Carolina._ ” The camera pans over a bunch of similarly burly men, mix of black, white, and hispanic guys, with two tattooed ladies in the middle of the pack. “ _MAGA Socialism! We’re here because that sonofabitch David Duke is in town to give some kind of speech against the removal of un-American statues of traitors, and we want to show that Nazi-loving Klansman and his un-American buddies what we think of pussies in sheets in the good ol’ USA!_ ” The men cheer, some of them shouting “MAGA POTUS” or “Break the Chains!”. Jesus fuck, what have I created?   
  
“Nine guys?” Vinnie mutters. “Small militia.”   
  
“Two of them are ex-Marines, and three are volunteer firefighters,” Secretary of Veterans’ Affairs Max Uriarte says from the other chair. I’ve been hustled back to Air Force One fifteen minutes early, though Annie is keeping track of the fundraising numbers and assures me that the campaign’s blown past the numbers we expected. “Real pillars of the community. I’ll admit the former is a little embarrassing by association, Mr. President.”   
  
“Hey, they didn’t kill anybody.”   
  
“They ran his underpants up the--”   
  
“ _Sshh_ , no spoilers, man!” On the screen, the shaky camera shows the men arming themselves with imitation firearms and pinning open-carry permits to their chests opposite their apparent militia insignia, an American flag emblem above an IWW flag with a red star on either side.   
  
“ _Remember, boys, we’re here to defend the counterprotest from fascist aggression,_ ” Lieber tells his guys. “ _We don’t draw until they draw._ ” A chorus of  _ayes_  greets him, and the idiots take positions on either flank of a big gaggle of anti-Klan protesters as they walk down towards where I presume David Duke is having his Klan rally. Some lady asks Lieber who he and his guys are, and he explains. “ _American Red Guards Militia, ma’am. We’re here to support Comrade Donnie and the Revolution against the fascist bastards, by defending you folks from any fascist aggression. You can check out our website on your phone, we have a page on Redneck Revolt’s website, too_.”   
  
“ _When did you join this...militia?_ ”   
  
“ _After the goddamn Nazi sons of bitches tried to kill Comrade Donnie, ma’am. If those bastards are out trying to kill the President to stop the Revolution, we’ve got to fight back. I was a terminal lance in the Marines, so I knew some folks on a Facebook group with military training. We were complaining about the Nazis trying to kill the President last year, and I was like, just going to protests isn’t cutting it anymore, these lunatics don’t have any respect for democracy or the Bill of Rights, we need to be ready to defend anti-fascist protests against them if they try anything. So we set up the group and some training days, on top of the usual weekend protests. We’re also planning on taking a week off of work as a group to go to the Mexican border and help welcome Central American refugees to America._ ”   
  
“Jesus,” Vinnie mutters.   
  
“Well, they’re enthusiastic at least,” Fatima points out. “It’d be nice if they channelled that passion in a more...constructive way, of course.”   
  
"To be fair, they didn’t seriously injure anyone,” Uriarte admits. “Still. Guys need to calm the Hell down and focus on showing up to the protest and not waving guns around.”   
  
“C’mon, guys, watch the video,” I whine. The others quiet down.   
  
The militia marches alongside the protesters until they come to the (rather considerably smaller) Klan rally, a bunch of overweight white dudes in sheets and hoods standing around a mounted statue as David Duke rants into a megaphone, something about the Confederacy being the last stand of ‘true’ white supremacy in America and the Feds not being allowed to ‘miscegenate that away’. Surprisingly good understanding of history, for a racist idiot.   
  
The cops are there, but they don’t even have riot gear, and are completely unprepared. Some of the Klansmen wander over and get into a shouting match with protesters; Lieber moves in closer as more Klansmen come over to support their buddies.   
  
Lieber gets in the face of one of the Klansmen, guy’s probably drunk already from his red nose and slurred speech. It’s when Lieber calls the Klansman a Nazi that things get bad.   
  
“ _What, are you a fucking kike?_ ” the Klansman sneers.   
  
“ _Damn right I’m Jewish, you Hitler-loving son of a bitch_ ,” Lieber shoots back, clearly angered by the slur.   
  
“ _He’s a fucking kike!_ ” the Klansman screams.   
  
“ _Fuck you!_ ” Lieber shouts back. Then another Klansman comes charging in, throwing a punch. It flies past Lieber’s camcorder, he cries out, and the madness begins.   
  
“Have something about police incompetence put into the statement,” I tell Fatima. “Also, something along the lines of, ‘although the Klansmen threw the first punch, Comrade Donnie expects and hopes that his supporters and voters will not engage in political violence, and will not support those who do’. Something like that.”   
  
“‘Hopes’ isn’t hard enough. ‘Expects’ might work better.”   
  
“Good point, Fatima. Put in what you think works.” I turn back to the video, where the militia seems to have the Klan on the run under a hail of red paint. “How many of the douchebags got hurt, out of personal interest?”   
  
“Some bruising, scrapes from being knocked over in the scrum, one guy lost a tooth after he got paint all over his face and eyes and fell over,” Uriarte reports.   
  
I chuckle nastily. “Fuck ‘em, I may be against political violence on principle, but I won’t shed a tear for the Klan.” Vinnie and Uriarte grunt their agreement. On the screen, David Duke is cornered by Red Guards militiamen, who strip off his sheet.   
  
“ _Hands in the air, fascist bastard!_ ” Lieber shouts. Duke cowers, screaming about his pure white blood.   
  
“Holy shit, this is insane,” I mutter. I can see Annie rolling her eyes out of the corner of my eye.   
  
“Mr. President, you are literally making a game called  _Nazi Slayer_ , what did you expect?”   
  
“I dunno, people not being idiots, maybe--holy shit!” On the video, Duke is stripped by two militia guys, as another grabs his underpants.   
  
“ _Hey, Ben, I just had a great idea._ ”   
  
“ _What, Dale?_ ”   
  
“ _Watch this shit, man, I’m running his undies up the flagpole._ ”   
  
“No fucking way,” I chuckle. Oh, man, this should not be funny but I can’t stop laughing. “Oh god he’s actually doing it! On camera! Uh, Fatima, I disapprove of this on principle, obviously.” And there is a matter of slippery slopes and behavior being inappropriate no matter who the target is, and that is all very important to consider at times like this…  
  
...but at the same time, David Duke’s underpants are getting run up a flagpole, and I can’t help but laugh at it before the militia guys get locked up for political violence.   
  
Besides, it’s not like I’m going to pardon them or anything. I do have some principles.   
  
“And here’s where they break out the superglue,” Uriarte says, doodling in a notebook to my right.   
  
“I can’t believe they literally glued him to a car,” I snigger. “Oh, man. There hs is, screaming about his racial pride and his dick’s flapping to the wind!”   
  
“Not for much longer,” Uriarte notes. And I gasp as Duke is superglued to the car by his little Davey and pubes.   
  
“OK, that’s just a dick move,” I admit.   
  
“Yeah,” Vinnie, Annie, and Uriarte agree. Fatima just sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.   
  
“I’m putting this in my comic,” Uriarte notes. “Ought to be worth a few laughs.”   
  
“Yeah, these guys are, uh...look, I welcome the enthusiasm, but they’re being dumbasses.”   
  
“Yup.”   
  
“ _And that’s how we treat sheet-wearing pussies in the USA!_ ” Lieber shouts into the camcorder. “ _MAGA POTUS! MAGA Socialism! Break the Chains!_ ”   
  
“ ** _BREAK THE CHAINS! MAGA POTUS!_** ” the other militia idiots chant.   
  
I shut off the video. “I assume the police finally figured things out soon after?”   
  
“Actually, the militia hung around for half an hour to make sure Duke didn’t hurt himself trying to pull himself off the car,” Uriarte says.   
  
“The cops took that long just to sort out the scrum,” Vinnie explains. “They weren’t out in force and didn’t have riot gear or anything crowd-control related. Completely inept preparation.”   
  
“Annie, put me down for a call to the Durham police, I’m gonna deliver an ass-chewing. Fatima, for the statement, I disapprove of political violence and hope that the full force of our bigly great criminal justice system comes down on these idiots, protesting Nazis is one thing but stooping to their level is not cool.”   
  
“Understood, Mr. President.”   
  
“Also, I need to talk to you about the adoption stuff. But later. Right now we gotta get the response to this out.” I shake my head. “Jesus fuck, what have I created?”   
  
“A movement of people who are mad as hell and united largely by their anger at the status quo and high opinion of you?” Annie suggests.   
  
“Adoption?” Uriarte asks in confusion.   
  
“Yeah, I’m gonna adopt some more kids,” I tell him. “Syrians or Hondurans or something. Refugee orphans, that type of kids. Give ‘em a good home, stable family of sorts with Barron and Tiffany. Put my money where my mouth is on immigration. But it’s gonna take time, you know?”   
  
“Fair enough,” my secretary of Veterans’ Affairs admits.   
  
“Anything else I need to know?” I ask my team. Four heads shake. “Good. Let’s ride, I gotta chew out some dumb cops and call some of my own supporters fucking morons.”   
  
***  
  
_February 9th. Tel Aviv._    
  
“There comes a time in a nation’s history,” Naftali Bennett said, “when men of courage and vision must take drastic action to save their homeland.”   
  
The soldiers seated in the dark room nodded and grumbled their agreement, the room’s one flickering light bulb casting heavy shadows across the floor. Bennett poured himself a glass of wine, sipped it, and lowered it with a sigh. “The leader of our nation has sold out,” Bennett growled. “He has abandoned our rightful territories in Judea and Samaria, subjecting thousands of our citizens, who only wish to live in peace upon the land that we won for them with the blood of our forefathers, to the barbarous rule of a bunch of Arab-Islamic terrorist fanatics!”   
  
The soldiers grumbled with anger. Bennett smirked internally. He’d picked them well.   
  
“Our loyalty to Israel and the Jewish race cannot be questioned. We cannot allow that coward Barkat and his self-hating antisemitic lackeys from betraying our homeland to a bunch of Koran-thumping terrorist sand monkeys and the orange-skinned puppet they have hypnotized in the White House!”   
  
“Then why are you supporting capitulation?” an officer asked suspiciously.   
  
Bennett ground his teeth. He didn’t even have to exaggerate his rage now. “Trump threatened to have me killed,” he snarled. “And all because I informed him of the consequences of moving forward with his Arab-backed lunatic scheme!” And implicitly threatened to murder Barkat, but they didn’t need to know that. “For the sake of my family, for the sake of my  _children_ , good sweet little Jewish children who deserve to grow up with a father and with a greater homeland that includes its natural possessions in Judea and Samaria, I was  _forced_  to go along with his antisemitic Arab-backed scheme!” Always good to harp on the children, the masses always lapped that nonsense up. The soldiers were steaming mad now.   
  
“We should kill Trump,” another officer hissed. “In the White House, let those backstabbing Americans know that they are not invincible!”   
  
“No, Major Shamir,” Bennett cut in. “That didn’t work, it got Netanyahu thrown out. In America, surrounded by his Secret Service, Trump is untouchable. And if we fail, he will surely start a new Shoah and eradicate our homeland, won by our forefathers with their blood and sweat and the blood and sweat of their sons, in nuclear genocide! All in the name of his poisonous multiculturalism and antisemitic hatred!”   
  
“Multiculturalism is the real genocide,” Major Shamir agreed. Something about that was vaguely unsettling even to Bennett, but like the politician he was he rolled with it.   
  
“Er, yes.” Bennett cleared his throat. “However. We  _will_  have an opportunity to grant you your wish, Major Shamir.”   
  
Shamir was wide-eyed. Bennett grinned internally. He was hooked. “How, sir?”   
  
“Trump will be coming to Jerusalem  _personally_. For the capitulation ceremony.” Bennett grinned like a shark. “The IDF will be providing security as a ‘symbolic gesture of good faith’. I’m sure that you can fill in the blanks, Major Shamir.”   
  
The Major grinned right back. “That I do. We’ll kill that motherfucker, pin it on Hamas, and use the justification to annex Judea and Samaria, then start removing the sand rats.”   
  
“Not just him,” Bennett cut in sharply. “Barkat too. And the Arab pigs, of course.”   
  
“Of course,” Shamir sniffed, like he was surprised it was even a question. “Barkat, too, though? He may be a traitor and a self-hating Jew, but can’t we just kill a fellow…”   
  
“He capitulated once,” Bennett hissed. “He  _will_  capitulate again.”   
  
Shamir cocked his head, then nodded slowly. “I see. Don’t worry, Mr. Prime Minister. We’ll see it done, trust me.”   
  
Bennett preened at the term. “Good. I’ll have you richly rewarded, I swear.”   
  
***  
  
_February 14th. The White House._  
  
“Vinnie, I want you out of here by 6, OK? You need a few hours with your family.” I wave to the other Secret Service guys guarding me. “You lot all get a bonus, of course.”   
  
“Yes, sir.” Vinnie grins. “You got anyone special to write a card to or something?”   
  
“Nah, Vinnie. Melania’s in Belgium fucking some French dude, I don’t really know anybody else I’d be obligated to do that for. So I’m just Skyping Laura Benanti later to make sure she’s holding up, then setting up convention plans with Greg and the production team. I’m thinking we can hit ComicCon, DragonCon, maybe GenCon. I’m definitely taking Barron and Tiffany to GenCon, trust me, Vinnie.”   
  
“And GenCon is…”   
  
I sputter. “Only the most awesome tabletop RPG convention in the  _fucking_  universe! Look, man, there’s a good chance whatever I try to do’s gonna get interrupted by some crisis or other, so I’m gonna take the time off, damn it, and pray I get a few hours before bin Laden rises from the grave or North Korea nukes themselves by accident or something.”   
  
“...sounds like a good time to me, sir.”   
  
“That’s the plan, Vinnie, that’s the plan.”   
  
“Mr. President,” Agent Clay says, leaning in the door of my office. “Secretary Mattis here to see you.”   
  
“Send him in.”   
  
“Mr. President,” the former General growls. “I need a minute. In private.”   
  
“Sure thing.” I nod to Vinnie. “Everybody but you out.”   
  
“Sir.” My henchman motions, and my minions head for the door.   
  
“What’s this about?” I ask the moment the door closes.   
  
“This is your Come To Jesus meeting,” Mattis says, pulling up a chair and sitting. “The Italian election’s in two and a half weeks, Mr. President, and currently you have the entire thing effectively rigged to make a comedian their Prime Minister.”   
  
“Yeah, it’ll be the greatest practical joke in human history.”   
  
“It’s what Vladimir Putin did to put you in charge, only on a much larger scale,” Mattis growls. “I’ve sat through everything from you pissing on graves to you threatening to nuke Israel, but this is one step I’m  _not_  willing to go along with.”   
  
“I change the plan or you quit?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
I nod, slowly. “OK. Nothing can change your mind on this?”   
  
“Not one thing on God’s green Earth.”   
  
“OK. OK, I can work with this.” I bite my lip with a frown. “How about this. You know how I pulled my little stunt on Inauguration Day to fuck with Vlad? We do that with Italy. Leak the tapes. All of them.”   
  
“Are you  _nuts_?” Mattis explodes. “That could end NATO! It would poison our relationship with Italy forever!”   
  
“Then I gotta handle it carefully,” I counter. “Vinnie! Call Annie, I want a suit, full tux, everything. We do this full serious.”   
  
“Slow the Hell down,” Mattis growls. “What’s your plan?”   
  
“Explain that everything’s set. Name names. Walk down a list of every single Italian politician who took bribes and helped us buy them with their own money. Explain how that left the country open to Russian, Chinese, other countries fucking around with their politics. Whole, dangers of letting shallow petty authoritarians run your country, sort of thing?”   
  
“...that’s so insane, it might just work.”   
  
“My thoughts exactly.”   
  
“Salvini and DiMaio are corrupt to the core.”   
  
“Yup.”   
  
“Something like two-thirds of Italians are voting for one of those two’s electoral blocs.”   
  
“Yup.”   
  
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Mattis leans back in the chair, pale-faced. “You’re going to break the Italian political establishment.”   
  
“Will anybody miss it?”   
  
Mattis gives me a death glare, but I know I’ve got him. “This could backfire in  _thousands_ of ways.”   
  
“What’s the worst that could happen, Berlusconi? I have him dead to rights for enough corruption to make Hermann Göring look like Bob Mueller.” He even offered to let me fuck him up the ass for ten million dollars. I laughed and told him that that was a grave overestimation of his market value, and had my minions record the whole exchange.   
  
“Oh, I don’t know, fascists, Russian puppets, civil war,  _fascists_?” Jesus, he’s under a lot of stress to be snarking that openly. Maybe I should try to ease back on the madness just a little bit.   
  
OK, I’ll swear off insanity for Lent or something. Even though I’m an atheist.   
  
“Then I count off who’s  _not_  corrupt. My intermediaries ran into a lot of people who  _didn’t_ take bribes.”   
  
“I remember. Didn’t the Free and Equal leader threaten to go to the press?”   
  
“Yeah, that was hilarious. OK. I’ll do that, too. Vinnie! We’re doing this, let’s roll.”   
  
“Oh my God,” Mattis mutters as I stride for the door. “How the Hell do you do it, Wilson?”   
  
Vinnie chuckles ruefully. “With respect, Mr. Secretary, he pays me a truly obscene amount of money, gave me a mansion, and sent me to Tahiti with my family. And he’s funding my daughter’s education. I’m straight-up bribed.”   
  
“Oh, all this talk of money reminds me,” I pause in the doorway. “Annie, remind me to set up that fundraiser for Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. And that chick in West Virginia who’s primarying Manchin. It’s revolution time in Congress, we’re gonna remove the corrupt old goats who got their jobs through nepotism and enforce some grassroots democracy.”   
  
“You’re a madman,” Mattis groans. “And you’re a madman who I think I’m starting to like. God help me, I think I’m starting to like you.”   
  
“That’s a danger of working with me,” I joke, and strip off my jacket as I head out the door to prepare.   
  
***  
  
6 hours and several costume changes later, I take my place at my podium in front of a mob of reporters, Annie, Fatima, and Vinnie shadowing me. Mattis fled hours ago, pleading exhaustion and muttering excuses about something needing to be done at Newport News or whatever. Can’t say I blame him.   
  
“Remember,” Fatima hisses in my ear as she straightens my collar, “ _serious_. Deadly serious. That’s imperative. And stress that you  _could_  have done something but didn’t, that’s critical too.”   
  
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply with a straight face. She gives me a critical eye, then nods, and I step up to the mic.   
  
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I begin, “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called this press conference.   
  
“On March 4th, in a bit over 2 weeks, the Italians are holding a nationwide election to their Parliament. You may have seen a John Oliver segment about it recently. The primary contestants are the right-wing coalition, led by neofascist Matteo Salvini of the League party, the Five-Star Movement frontmanned by Luigi DiMaio but run by a shady tech guy, and the centrist coalition, or what’s left of it, headed by the Democrats under Matteo Renzi.   
  
“I am here to tell you that the United States of America has, in a social experiment designed to test Italian democracy for potential weaknesses, infiltrated all three blocs, most extensively the Five-Star Movement and the right-wing coalition. We have effectively bought out the League with their own money, the CIA’s cyberwarfare division has successfully infiltrated and effectively positioned itself to seize control of Five-Star’s opaque internal policy selection system, and we have achieved some success in bribing Democrat politicians.” I pull some papers out of my folder. “We achieved no success at infiltrating the Free and Equal party, nor the Radical Socialist Movement, a minor party in the Power to the People alliance. No effort was made to infiltrate CasaPound Italy because those dumb fascist sons of bitches aren’t worth the effort, but we did get some pretty hot footage of their secretary doing drugs with some hookers.” And we got Salvini on the same day. My god, Italian politics is a pit. “Efforts to suborn Free and Equal were called off after Pietro Grasso physically threatened our operative and threatened to have him arrested and prosecuted for offering bribes. Efforts to hack Five-Star on the other hand were extremely successful, and due to the totalitarian and opaque method which Five-Star’s Rousseau system is run by corrupt plutocrat Davide Casaleggio, we were able to avoid detection long enough to effectively seize control of the system and register enough accounts to form a majority voting bloc of sockpuppets.”   
  
I raise a slim portable hard drive. “On top of that, I have here in my hand video evidence of Matteo Salvini soliciting Arab prostitutes with bribe money taken from League campaign funds,” thanks in part to my zany scheme, “and begging said prostitutes to ‘invade’ his ass. Hot stuff. I also have audio and grainy video of Silvio Berlusconi offering to take my dick up his ass for 10 million dollars, and promising to let me replace the Leaning Tower of Pisa with Trump Tower Italy in exchange for monetary support for Forza Italia in the election and a time-share on my penthouse in New York. There’s also evidence of Berlusconi accepting bribes from Vladimir Putin in exchange for political favors, too.   
  
“As of today, I could name a completely unqualified comedian like John Oliver as the next Prime Minister of Italy, but instead, Italy, I’m telling you how your system’s broken so you can fix it.”   
  
I put the drive down and half-turn as Annie hands me a very large scroll. “All that information’s just been put up on the Internet, in sixteen languages including English and standard Italian. I have included detailed analysis of our methodology and weaknesses that could have been exploited by hostile powers like Russia to cause more serious damage. The full documentation has been sent to several Italian news networks, the BBC, CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, German and French media, and the Russian media and dictator. I have asked all of those organizations to include a link to the full documentation on whatever story they publish.” Good thing I was already planning something like this, the infrastructure of the website was already in place, albeit hidden deep in Langley’s computers. “Now, I will tell you,  _personally_ , which candidates are corrupt and which are not.”   
  
It takes the better part of an hour. It’s a  _long_  list.   
  
When I’m done talking, I leave without taking questions and turn off my phone.   
  
Six hours later, Matteo Salvini is egged while giving a defiant speech to supporters.   
  
Four hours after that, someone in a ski mask spray-paints  _Puttana a buon mercato! Li mortacci tua, de tuo nonno, de tua madre e dei 3/4 daa palazzina tua!_  on Silvio Berlusconi’s house in broad daylight.   
  
By the time I turn on the news on the 15th, there are protests in every settlement with more than about 50 people in Italy, Matteo Salvini is suing several of his former supporters for throwing him in the Adriatic, Luigi DiMaio was booed off the stage at a campaign event, and Silvio Berlusconi has fled Italy and gone completely off the grid after being sent dozens of death threats.   
  
The election is still on.   
  
_This is only the beginning._  
  
***  
  
***  
  
_February 17th._  
  
“Thank you,” Leigh says, cupping Benanti’s face in one hand as Greg and I lean forward in our seats. “For, y’know, saving me.” The undercut she’s wearing looks pretty good, even with the carefully scuffed makeup.   
  
“You may trust me to save you whenever necessary,” Benanti replies, and  _damn_  but she’s throwing herself into the role so much that I think her eyes are wet. She reaches up to cup Leigh’s face, and I catch Greg nodding out of the corner of my eye. “Alexandra…”   
  
And that’s Benoist’s cue in the background. She stage-slaps the schmuck who plays Manhell, who reels dramatically. “Damn it, Mon-El! You’re  _married_! I am  _not_  ‘starting where we left off’ by helping you  _cheat_!”   
  
Benanti and Leigh spring apart, and look away from each other sharply. Benanti clears her throat--I’m only half sure they added the blush in post. “I should stop Kara from throwing the Daxamite into the local sun.”   
  
“Right. Yes.” Leigh worries her lip in an excellent “confused lesbian” routine. “You. Um. Do that. I’ll be...over here...with my paperwork…”   
  
Benanti pauses, turns back to Leigh as she scrambles off, the camera turning to keep them both in-shot. “Alexandra…” she whispers, and the camera holds on that as I mentally count backwards from three. When I hit zero, Benanti shakes her head and turns back to head towards Benoist. “Bah. It would only hurt her anyway.”   
  
“What do you think?” Berlanti asks as the scene ends.   
  
“You, Harewood and McGrath hit this shit out of the park, man,” I tell him honestly. Apparently Lena Luthor and Martian Manhunter’s actors co-directed the finale, largely because I asked Berlanti and my bribing my way onto his show has made him hot goods in Hollywood. “Thanks, Greg. I needed this. Though, you could’ve just emailed it to me.”   
  
“Yeah, uh, I kind of had to come myself, Mr. President. With Katie. Because of an offer she got.”   
  
“McGrath got an offer? Good one?”   
  
The actress herself walks into my office with a frown. “Two million, actually.” I whistle. That’s a solid contract. “To be a Bond girl. They called my agent and asked if I would audition.”   
  
“The fuck?” I frown. “Yeah, I bribed a Universal exec and some guys from Eon Productions with Saudi blood money and a bottle of champagne I bought off of Jay-Z for a lease on the gold penthouse in Trump Tower, but that was to cast Sofia Boutella as Bond.”   
  
“What?” they ask as one in flat confusion.   
  
“She’s hot, OK? My celebrity crush. Plus she was great in  _Atomic Blonde_  and  _Star Trek Beyond_.” I shrug. “I dunno, if you want the job, go for it, but I didn’t bribe anybody. Like I told Laura Benanti over Christmas, she got headhunted for her dream role because I brought her to greater attention and people took notice. I’m free publicity, not a total nepotist.” I frown myself, turning to Annie, who stands next to me as usual with an unamused expression. “Remind me to talk to the suits about  _Trigger Mortis_. If they try to backstab me, we release the sex tapes.”   
  
“Do I want to know?” McGrath asks.   
  
“You don’t,” Berlanti answers before I can.   
  
“He’s right,” I nod. “I have footage of some of those suits I bribed fucking women other than their wives. Pretty graphic stuff. Almost as good as the Trump/Putin slashfic Stormy Daniels directed for me. It all gets on national news via Lacey from CNN who used to work for Fox if they backstab me.”   
  
“Did you  _really_  have to explain that?” Berlanti asks with a raised eyebrow.   
  
“Nah, but I wanted to.”   
  
“...you’re going to go to  _prison_ ,” McGrath notes in her adorable Irish brogue. “How are you getting away with all this outright bribery?”   
  
“There’s a statistically significant chance that I will revert to being the regular Donald Trump when I leave office, so I’m A-OK with being arrested the moment I step off of Special Air Mission 20,000. Even if I don’t, hell, I’ll have had a good ride. Or maybe I get shot by Mossad assassins or Nazis or Russian Spetsnatz. Whatever. Besides, the Democrats won’t impeach or convict me, I’m too politically convenient. Did you see how I got them a Senate seat in Alabama by revealing that Roy Moore is a pedo? I got the Democrats a Senate seat in Alabama by revealing that Roy Moore is a pedo.”   
  
“You’re insane,” McGrath notes with a raised eyebrow. A minion pulls up a chair for her.   
  
“I’m definitely well on my way there. Anyway. Sorry for any confusion. If you want the job? Take it. Just be sure to invite me to the release party.”   
  
She gives me a grin, and I hope my reflexive blush is hidden by Trump’s spray-tan. Sofia Boutella ain’t my only celebrity crush. “Mr. President, insane or not, you’ll be my plus one.”   
  
“Uh, oh man, that sounds great. Black tie?”   
  
“I’d email you a list of appropriate clothing, but it’s not like you’ll listen.”   
  
“I’d listen...uh…” I wince as I think about it for a second. “Nah. You’re right. I’ll come dressed as Blofeld or something.”   
  
“You already ha ve the cat,” Berlanti notes. “Also, we need to talk about next steps in April. We need more material and we need it fast, because with  _Arrow_  ending and the Suits wanting more...”   
  
“We’ve got  _Legends_ ,  _Supergirl_ ,  _Black Lightning_ , and  _Birds of Prey_. That’s a solid slate even with  _Flash_  and  _Arrow_  getting long in the tooth.”   
  
“The Suits want more options. I know, I know, but they’re the Suits.”   
  
“Fucking hell, I swear I’ll syndicalize their asses and make you interim Revolutionary Leader if they keep this up. I’ve got too much to do, damn it!”   
  
“Says the man who challenged Alex Kurtzman to a writing challenge for the position of  _Star Trek_  showrunner,” Berlanti notes dryly.   
  
“Touche,” I admit with a chuckle.   
  
“Of course, we’ll need to include lots of LGBT representation.”   
  
“Of course,” I scoff. We know each other by now. “Keep trying to get a trans male actor for  _Legends_ , we need that trans rep to go with whatever that stuff you have planned that you won’t tell me about is. Hey, uh, GenCon?”   
  
“I’m not playing your tabletop game, I’ve got too much on my slate already.”   
  
“Tabletop game?” McGrath asks.   
  
“Yeah, superhero themed tabletop RPG. Kinda like Dungeons and Dragons but with superheroes. And of course since it’s a  _Supergirl_  superhero game, basically all the characters are gonna be LGBT folks. You up for it?”   
  
“...alright. Since you’re my plus one at the release party for my next movie. And besides, drama’s always come naturally to me.”   
  
“Awesome,” I say with a grin. “And, hey. Good luck with the movie. Make it gay.”   
  
“With pleasure, Mr. President.”   
  
“So you’re doing the Bond movie?” Berlanti asks, and McGrath nods. “We’ll need to schedule around that, but given how much the President’s funnelling to me as discretionary funding I should be able to handle schedule issues--time is money and all that. Do you know anything else about the project?”   
  
McGrath shakes her head. “Not much at the moment, I’m sorry.”   
  
“It’s called  _Trigger Mortis_ , and it stars Sofia Boutella as a female Bond,” I say. “At least, if they stay loyal to my bribe.”   
  
“...they want me to be a Bond girl opposite  _Sofia Boutella_?” McGrath whistles. “I think that might actually give heart attacks to a lot of my fans.”   
  
“Better to risk dying of gay than to live without representation. Or...something like that. Anyway. Congratulations!”   
  
“Thank you, Mr. President.”   
  
“Please, how many times do I gotta say it? Call me Donnie, Comrade Donnie. All my friends do.”   
  
***  
  
_February 20th._  
  
“Mister Speaker, the President of the United States!”   
  
I stride down the aisle, probably giving C-Span its best ratings ever, wearing a brown pageboy bob wig and a pair of big dark sunglasses, a potato sack bearing the Day-Glo orange message  _The Fashion Industry Is Bourgeois Trash_  on the back, and two barefoot, hairy, horrifyingly naked old man legs. The applause dies instantly, replaced by confused, horrified muttering. I spin around dramatically, bow to the brass band I brought with me, and they begin a stirring rendition of  _Hail to the Chief_ , the choir I invited to the spare seats singing out the new, Comrade Donnie-approved lyrics to go with the tune as I high-step down the aisle.  
  
Senator Graham gags visibly as I caper past him, the potato sack only barely covering Donald Trump’s tiny twig and shriveled nuts.   


   


_Hail to the Chief we have chosen for the nation,  
Hail to the Chief! He serves at our beck and call.  
Hail to the Chief, who shall lead our Revolution  
Bound by allegiance to our great nation above all!._

_Ours is the aim to make this grand country grander,  
This we shall do, commanding our mighty chief!   
Hail to the one we elected as commander,  
Hail to America! Hail to our bitch the Chief!_

  
The world seems to hold its breath as I toss Vinnie my conductor’s baton and take my place by the clerk’s desk, passing the folders back to a stupefied Pence and Ryan and meshing my fingers on the shrunken remains of Trump’s gut, and I pause for a moment to revel in the instant of insanity before I plunge in.   
  
Against protocol, I know, but the Speaker doesn’t seem to be capable of doing much at the moment.   
  
“Wasssup, ‘Murica?” I begin. “Obviously I’m not some rich fashion shithead who supports a corrupt capitalist machine that enslaves starving children in Bangladesh. I’m actually Comrade Donnie.” I whip off the glasses and wig, then shuck the potato sack in one fluid movement to reveal the red star with a yellow grain and gear at its heart painted on my chest. “ _President_  Comrade Donnie.”   
  
Mike Pence falls out of his chair behind me with a  _thud_. I struggle against the temptation to turn and look at Paul Ryan.  
  
“So, let’s get this shit started. The state of our Union is strong. Not bigly strong but we’re getting there. The tax hike on the bourgeoisie will help pay for massive MAGA Education programs and workfare programs to support our fantastic workers, so bigly, so beautiful. The Work For America, If You’re Man Enough! program is off to a fantastic start, so bigly beautiful, and we are well on our way to making our nation the best place there’s ever been. Big Benny Netanyahu’s been defeated, Fuck Mike Pence failed to get a pedophile on the Supreme Court, and our wonderful people are rallying to the Red Banner of Labor to crush capitalist oligarchy forever, to protect our democracy and bring socialist equality to our great nation.   
  
“But the fight isn’t over. MAGA cannot happen without the People fighting for it. Syndicalism is only as strong as the People and as loud as their voice, so you all need to get the fuck out and vote. Protest! March! Send letters! Call Congresscritters! But get the fuck out there and fight for your country, damn it! Do some good, remind these corrupt idiots all around me who they really work for! Vote the bums out, learn all you can about every candidate in the races you can vote in, be the best voter you can be!   
  
“If we split up and get lazy, we’re easy prey for the corpos. Lazy voters, ill-informed voters, they are exploited workers, the corpos picking their pockets! But together-- _together_ , we are strong. Bigly strong. An unstoppable force, like Juggernaut from the X-Men. Good shit, that.   
  
“We will spread the Revolution with the voice of three hundred million Americans, united and free beneath the star-spangled banner! We will make America great again by reminding the out-of-touch plutocrats that surround me who they really work for. We will end capitalism and bring forth a new age of equality and prosperity in this great nation! We will remind the corpos and the Congresscritters that the voice of the People is a thunderous roar, a noise that cannot and  _will_  not be ignored!”   
  
I take a quick drink of water. “In other news, citizens of the greatest nation on Earth, our military situation remains strong. Our military is bigly beautiful and the most powerful on Earth, and led by very stable geniuses! We’ve kicked the living shit out of ISIS and we’re gonna finish them off with the help of our bigly amazing allies the Kurds, who’re trying to establish a wonderful socialist democratic utopia in Syria. Tall order, but so far they seem to be making progress, bit by bit, so congrats to our allies there.” I scratch Trump’s balls, and I hear Mitch McConnell retch behind me.   
  
“Even as I speak, the leaders of Israel and Palestine are finalizing negotiations on a peace treaty that should finally end the pointless violence in the Levant. By forcing Israel to stop acting like an insane rogue state and play ball like a normal country, your pal Comrade Donnie’s helped save hundreds of thousands of lives and removed the single largest focus of radical ethnic and religious agitation on the planet. MAGA peace!   
  
“Economically, things are looking up. The stock market took a hit after I made the corpos pay their fair share, but whatever, job numbers are up and the  _Work For America, If You’re Man Enough!_  program is going great. The Workers of America are finally getting a good break. Fuck the rich.”   
  
I scratch my chest, raking stubby nails through Trump’s hideous scraggle of pale gray chest hair. “Our military is in decent shape, considering the cutbacks since the end of the Cold War, and the bumfuck stupid way we let corpo bastards charge Uncle Sam more and more for the same over-budget guns, ships, and planes. I’ve already ordered Secretary Mattis to reform the shit out of DoD to help fix that, but we’re gonna get some laws in place so that from now on, the corpos will be paid exactly what they bid for exactly what they promised to deliver, no ifs, ands, or buts! Fuck the corpos! MAGA America! Our boys and girls serving our fantastic nation, they deserve the best guns, the best planes, the best ships, and if the corpos are too busy cutting themselves big checks with Uncle Sam’s money to give our glorious revolutionary army the equipment our soldiers deserve to defend our fantastic nation, well, then fuck those corpos because Comrade Donnie will fucking nationalize their asses by buying them out at the bankruptcy sale, and hand their assets over to DoD to make war materiel with some proper fucking oversight.   
  
“Fuck the corpos, seriously.”   
  
I scratch Trump’s balls again. “Man, I should’ve shaved my pubes.” Behind me, I hear Mike Pence start to sob.   
  
“But yeah, like I said, this all depends on you, the glorious American proletariat. You like my policies? Get out and support ‘em! I can browbeat Congresscritters, but I can’t save this nation alone. Only by mass action, only by making their will known can the People re-take their power from the capitalist-imperialists and restore sovereignty to the American nation and the bigly beautiful American people!   
  
“As to other concerns...Our education system is in trouble. Corruption and poorly planned reform attempts have badly damaged our school system! There are some adults these days who don’t even know what World War 2 was or why Adolf Hitler was a bad dude! Excepting the Nazis, of course, who do know who Hitler was and love him anyway. Fuckheads.” I shift my weight and let a little fart rip. “Ahh. Better out that in, I always say.” Mitch McConnell makes a sound like a strangled toad.   
  
“I am marshaling my forces and working with Congressional Democrats to dramatically increase education funding and teacher salaries, per the advice of our fantastic teachers’ unions. Our revolutionary education system will be the best in the world, I promise you, it’ll be so fantastic, so bigly beautiful. And we will make the corpos pay for it! Never again will the capitalists be able to keep the People poor and stupid! Never again will we fall for bullshit lies about billionaires needing tax cuts! Never again will the capitalist-imperialists deny our proud and mighty workers the overtime, vacation days, parental leave, health insurance, worker’s comp, or anything else that we  _deserve_! Because the generations of the future will be the best-educated, the best in the world, they will know every trick of the imperialists, every bit of propaganda and lying crap the bourgeoisie use to trample on our glorious proletariat! We’ll repeal Taft-Hartley, give our unions back some fucking TEETH! The first step on the road to a true people’s democracy, where the  _workers_  run the nation and not a bunch of rich Saudi princes and Kremlin pawns with gold-plated toilet seats! A new, more powerful, greater America, where no creepy billionaires like that corrupt shithead Ike Perlmutter,” currently Public Enemy #1 to the ex-military community due to his attempt to bribe his way into control of Veterans’ Affairs, which I leaked via Lacey Dawes and the Paradise Papers, “no more will he be able to get away with using Super-PAC cash to bribe his way into control of Veterans’ Affairs! No more will corrupt scammers like Ike Perlmutter be able to fuck with our nation’s democracy and screw over our veterans, because  _we will know_ how to deal with them! We will be trained as early as middle school in how to spot corrupt fucks like that and we will know how to wreck their shit!   
  
“We will also make our immigration system great again! We will bring the tired, poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free! The Nazis and other fascists hate our America because we love our freedom. The KKK and the Nazi fucks who tried to kill Comrade Donnie, they hate freedom, they want you poor and stupid, because they are part of the imperialist machine, like fucking remoras on the belly of a shark, and they want to feed off of your anger at the system, they want everybody but themselves the same weak, pathetic, hateful little shits that they are. Fuck the Nazis! Fuck the Klan! MAGA Honest Abe! I’m working on a plan for comprehensive immigration reform with my advisers to recruit new generations of freedom-lovers to make into Americans, because there’s nothing in the world as great as people who love freedom, and the more Americans there are the stronger America is! Imagine it! A billion people, working, creating, buying, spending, all across the nation! All of them contributing to the strength of our economy, every single one’s work and every single one’s spending raising our GDP, all of them protected by our bigly beautiful revolutionary labor laws and not exploited by capitalist pigs in some crappy sweatshop in an authoritarian shithole! Down with capitalist-imperialist fake globalism and its corporate propaganda bullshit! We need more Americans, not outsourcing! We need to control the corpos, not let them sell our jobs overseas!  _AND WE WILL **MAKE**  THEM SERVE US! DOWN WITH CAPITALISM! GLORY TO THE NEXT AMERICAN REVOLUTION!_” I slam my fist on my podium for emphasis. “And when we have overthrown the old order, when we have transformed this nation into a Syndicalist utopia where every adult has an equal vote and an equal share of our glorious economy, where no American kids are killed senselessly by cowboy cops, where the Nazis are rejected by all and never leave their grotty little basements, where free, quality health care is a right and not a privilege you pay through the nose for, where the education system is as strong as the people who work for it, where capitalist bribery and so-called “super-PACs” are banned like they should be, where any corporations that are left toe the line before the People’s demands, where we have returned prosperity and stability to our working class, THEN THE STATE OF OUR UNION WILL BE STRONG! Not just that, IT! _WILL! **BE! INVINCIBLE!!!!!**_ ”   
  
I pause for breath, and take a drink as the stunned room stares at me in mute stupefaction. After taking a few gulps, I slam the empty glass down with an  _aah!_.   
  
“Now, who wants to see me masturbate on Paul Ryan’s stupid face?”   
  
***  
  
_Undisclosed location, USA._  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Secretary of Veterans’ Affairs Max Uriarte muttered.   
  
“You haven’t seen half of the things I’ve talked him down from,” Secretary of Defense James Mattis replied, watching the Speaker of the House recoil in panic from the President’s naked body. “This is his least insane idea. I talked him down from breaking out the football and asking Congress if they really wanted him to nuke anybody.”   
  
“How can somebody so obviously insane also manage to get so much done???”   
  
“I believe that the term the President prefers is  _refuge in audacity_.” On the television, Trump waggled a particular organ menacingly as Paul Ryan attempted to flee and the Vice-President cried for order.   
  
“The fuck does that mean?”   
  
“His entire gimmick is having no shame. That entire address was just to get attention for himself and his policies, and there’s nothing that madman’s better at doing than getting attention.” Mattis shook his head. “He’s worse than those Kardashian people.”   
  
“...pass the beer, sir?”   
  
“You don’t need to  _sir_  me, Marine, we’re both cabinet secretaries. And here.”   
  
***  
  
_February 23rd._  
  
“Well, Mr. President, you certainly made history,” Fatima announces. She’s wearing a red flower-print headscarf today, looks rather fetching actually.   
  
“Good or bad?”   
  
“Well, you got over eighty million viewers on the live broadcast of the State of the Union and it’s at three billion hits on YouTube and climbing.  _DonnieTube_  is now more popular than PewDiePie in terms of subscriber count, and your address has over ninety million likes and seventy million dislikes.”   
  
“...jesus.”   
  
“Most of those are world records, Mr. President.” She says it like she can barely believe it herself.   
  
“The poll numbers?”   
  
“I can barely believe this, Mr. President, but you have a slight  _bump_. Just above the 3.5% margin of error.”   
  
“What the  _fuck_?” I shake my head. “OK. Annie!”   
  
“Sir,” my admin acknowledges from my right.   
  
“Activate the propaganda campaign for education, phase 2.”  _Mitch McConnell wants you poor and stupid_  is a kind of obviously political slogan, but I don’t give a fuck, fuck that guy and fuck the mess the last few administrations have made of our education system.   
  
“That’s ahead of schedule, Mr. President.”   
  
“We’ve got good numbers, I want to jump the gun.”   
  
“Alright, I’ll make the call, sir.”   
  
“Good woman. Vinnie!”   
  
“Mr. President?”   
  
“Make sure Trump Games is ready for the SuperSoldier promo work. After my lunch meet with Captain America today I can’t spare any more time for a couple of days, the Putin meet’s close.”   
  
“I’ll take care of it, Mr. President.”   
  
“Good.” I stand, straightening my suit. “Annie, get me my disguise. I gotta meet my favorite superhero.”   
  
An hour later, I slide into a booth in a roadside diner outside of Rockville, Maryland. Vinnie takes the window, and a very large buzz-cut Secret Service goon who works for Vinnie slides in on my other side. Across the table, a tall hunk sits with a serious-looking dude who I assume is an agent or lawyer or something. I’m heavily disguised by my standards, with a black toupee replacing Trump’s usual one, a big obviously fake moustache, dark sunglasses, and a derby hat.   
  
“Apologies for the dumb spy routine,” I chuckle. “I like to do my meetings this way. So, Chris. How do you feel about Nazis?”   
  
“I’m not a fan,” Chris Evans deadpans. “You want me to do some kind of commercial?”   
  
“Of sorts.” I slide a folder across the table. “There’s a company called Trump Games that’s making a game called  _SuperSoldier: Nazi Slayer!_ , real nice period piece kinda thing. You are wanted to do a promotional commercial. I have Disney by the balls because of a favor a Disney higher-up owed me,” specifically, Kevin Feige, the new supreme commander of all Marvel properties, owes me a million a year for me getting rid of Perlmutter, so he carefully leaked me enough confidential information to doom Disney if I ever release it once I had the CIA fake a hack of Alan Horn’s computers, “so you shouldn’t have to worry about contract problems.”   
  
“What the Hell do you have on Iger?”   
  
“I have nothing. There is, however, a fellow in a minor bureau who is under orders to send an email to some media places if he gets a phone call from another person.” There’s also a safe-deposit box, a specific type of setup I got the idea for from a TV show, that only Vinnie has access to. But I won’t let Disney catch a whiff of that. “Quite simply, Chris, I want you to help me advertise a game about murderizing the shit out of Nazis.”   
  
“I thought you were against political violence.”   
  
“I am. It’s a bit different when it’s literally set in World War Two and the protagonist is fighting SS goons with Mausers and shit.”   
  
“Says here this will be the ‘last’ commercial?”   
  
“Yeah.” I pull a modified tablet out to show him the first one. “Take a look at this. Here, earbuds.”   
  
He puts one in. I shrug and put in the other. On screen, we see the fruits of Trump Games’ trailer animation department, and Jennifer Hale doing a Russian accent.   
  
That cost me a bottle of Chateau Lafite ‘33 and a promise to let her voice a character in the next  _Mass Effect_  game (to be produced by Trump Games, now that I got the property from the remains of EA). Jennifer Hale is cool.   
  
“ _The Motherland is under siege_ ,” Hale’s narration begins over scenes of SS death’s heads crawling along a tide of black across a map of eastern Europe. “ _With the so-called übermenschen at their vanguard, the forces of fascism have swept deep into the heart of the Soviet Union. While Stalin hides in his bunker under the Kremlin, demanding impossibilities from the soldiers of the Rodina and refusing to let our generals enact the plans that could win us this war, Mother Russia bleeds and her people suffer for it._ ” A silhouette of a Nazi supersoldier leads an army forward, crushing heroic but outnumbered silhouettes of red resistance fighters underfoot.   
  
“ _The enemies of the Great Socialist Revolution close in on Moscow and Stalingrad, the heart of our nation laid bare before their guns and their tanks and the iron fists of the übermenschen. But there are some brave patriots who fight back_.” The music goes from martial and grim to sweeping and majestic as the camera zooms up a heroic pinnacle to a single form standing at the front of a mob of red silhouettes, a woman clad in black and red with fists crackling with energy; a heroic montage of kicking Nazi ass begins as she continues. “ _I am that patriot! I will use the powers of the Nazi übermensch against them, I will fight boldly for my nation and the Revolution, and I will make them bleed for every step of Soviet soil that they take. We will drive the Nazis back to Berlin, and hang Adolf Hitler like the common criminal he is. They will not even get enough land to bury their dead! For I am nothing if not a patriot, and killing Nazis is patriotism!_ ” The screen shifts to the big title screen, showing the block letters  _SuperSoldier:_  and beneath them, in scrawled writing,  _Nazi Slayer!_ , with the small Times-font subtitle  _Killing Nazis is Patriotism_.   
  
The gimmick, of course, being that in the game, killing Nazis gives you Patriotism, which is basically experience points, and doing good deeds gives you Heroism, which lets you buy cosmetics.   
  
_SuperSoldier_  is not going to be a game that rewards people for leaving people in Nazi custody or failing to burn concentration camps to the ground.   
  
“Jesus,” Evans mutters.   
  
“What do you think? That’s gonna be a TV spot, on my YouTube channel, and on YouTube ads, too.”   
  
“You’re fucking insane. But I kind of like it.”   
  
“So you’ll do it?”   
  
“Chris,” his lawyer begins, but Evans waves him down.   
  
“I’m in. Hell, I’ll do it for free. To Hell with the goddamn Nazis. It’s the twenty-first century, about time we sent a message to Hitler-lovers and sheet-wearing thugs that they aren’t welcome in this country.”   
  
I reach a hand out with a grin, and we shake. “I couldn’t agree more, Captain America. Welcome aboard.”   
  
“Speaking of Captain America, uh, I’m kinda tired of the whole, eating nothing but chicken and rice for six months then not drinking water for two days before a muscle shot, that thing. And the T-shirts two sizes too small. I get that the ladies love it, but it’s the hardest job I’ve ever had in acting, and I’m including starving myself for Snowpiercer there. So, uh. I’m out after Avengers 4.”   
  
I grimace. “Shame. You’ve been a fucking awesome Captain America. But to be honest? I don’t blame you, man.   
  
“Oh, and don’t worry about the bill, I got that handled.”   
  
***  
  
_February 25th. Dubai, United Arab Emirates._  
  
The door closes behind the diplomatic teams, marking the start of the much-hyped one-on-one session. My stomach bubbles with anxiety and butterflies; this may be the most insane thing I’ve done yet, and I’ve delivered a State of the Union address naked. Finally, Putin and I will be interacting one on one, instead of sitting back and letting the diplomats talk while delivering a few canned remarks.   
  
I have no business being in this room. I’m 22 years old and a fucking Biology major, for crying out loud! I’m no diplomat. I’m nobody who should be staring down a nuclear-armed dictator.   
  
“So,” I say, kicking my shoes up on the table. “You still fucking male prostitutes, Vlad?” Somehow, I manage to keep hold of my bluster.   
  
“I will fucking kill you,” Putin snarls. His eyes are bloodshot, blood vessels swollen and burst, right eyelid twitching ever so slightly. It’s actually a little scary, as insane and inured to it all as I’ve gotten.   
  
“Not in this room you won’t,” I counter. “I gave explicit orders to immediately nuke Moscow, Volgograd, Petrograd, Omsk, Kursk, and Vladivostok if I don’t leave this room with you.”   
  
“I made similar arrangements,” Putin hisses. “You backstabbing little pussy. I invested good money in getting you elected, you son of a bitch!”   
  
“Well, now that we’ve established that neither of us are total morons and you wasted a shitload of money on me, let’s talk terms,” I shoot back. Oh fuck he’s gonna nuke America. He’s gonna break out the nukes and I have no idea where I’m going and I’m just bullrush blustering my way through and  _this is fucking insane_. “You back the fuck out of Ukraine and Crimea and hold legitimate elections and I’ll end the sanctions. If you don’t, well, you wouldn’t  _believe_  some of the things Paul Manafort said to me.”   
  
Putin’s eyes refocus on me and he sits up straighter. “Manafort told you  _what_?” Something about the way he says it is odd.   
  
“Mueller had to get him and his family into protective custody,” I note. “He was pretty insistent about that, actually. Seemed pretty scared. Of you, as it happens.”   
  
“That  _fucking snake_ ,” Putin hisses, then composes himself. “You are meddling with forces you cannot control, Trump…”   
  
“Pull out of Ukraine or I’ll let the Russian people know just how much you steal while I sanction your ass into the Marianas trench, Vlad.”   
  
Putin bares his teeth, eye twitching, but manages to control himself. “I will send for something to eat,” he hisses between gritted teeth as he pulls out his smartphone. “That ought to make this discussion more... _pleasant_.”   
  
“Sure,” I shrug, though I’ve got no plans to eat anything Putin gives me. “But seriously, Vlad. Why Ukraine? I’m up to scaling back and delaying IRBM deployment to NATO partners in Europe if you’ll pull out, I’ll even let the sanctions up, just play nice, give back the land that isn’t yours, and embrace democracy.”   
  
Putin snorts. “I have an image to think about, Trump. You’re truly naive if you think that you can bully the leader of the Motherland like this.”   
  
“Oh, bite me, Vlad.” Holy shit did I just say that? Keep bluffing, Ian, can’t let him catch on that you’re about to shit your pants.   
  
Fuck. I’m even thinking of myself with my real name. It’s been months since I got shocked partway out of my near-instinctual Comrade Donnie mode.   
  
“ _Не угрожай мне!_ ” Putin snaps, then collects himself. “Do not threaten me, Trump! I am the supreme leader of Russia. I will crush you like an  _ant_.”   
  
“You’d burn your nation to the ground in a petty tantrum?” I ask. Putin grinds his teeth. “No, seriously, Vlad. I’m the insane one here, not you.”   
  
“I will find some way to break you,” Putin promises. “You have a secret. A skeleton in your closet that people will care about.  _Something_  that I can use against you.”   
  
“Not as many as you have,  _Little Volodya_ ,” I snarl. “C’mon, Vlad. I’m trying to play ball with you here! Neither of us wants a war, neither of us wants the nukes being broken out.”  
  
“I  _own_  you, Trump!” Putin shoots back. “My hackers won you that election and you know it!”   
  
“Eh, I’d say Hillary’s shitty campaign, her being a crap candidate, and the Comey letter all helped.” The door opens behind me as a waiter is ushered in. “Look. I don’t like seeing your economy in the toilet any more than you do. Play ball with me and I’ll let up on the sanctions.”   
  
“You will recognize the hegemony of the Russian nation over her rightful citizens in Novorossiya and Crimea,” Putin fires back. “This is non-negotiable!”   
  
“You’ve got no bargaining chips,” I snap, glancing momentarily at the waiter. Redhead with big tits and an unbuttoned top showing a lot of cleavage. “Put ‘em on the table.” Looks like cheese and crackers with two glasses and a pitcher of what looks like lemonade. Weird, we’ve already got a pitcher and glasses up here. “By the way, Vlad, thanks for agreeing to lemonade instead of water. I’ve been on this diet for months and I’m going insane, you know?”   
  
“You see?” the dictator says with a sickly grin. “We  _can_  agree on some things.”   
  
“Yeah. Like you overreaching.” I pour myself a glass from the old pitcher. Putin snarls and turns to dismiss the waiter chick with an angry wave of his hand; I put the pitcher next to the new one on the tray.   
  
Putin turns back to me. “Let us... _consider_...who is in fact  _overreaching_  here and who is in the stronger position,” he snarls, eye twitching as he pours himself a glass from the new pitcher, bloodshot gaze fixed firmly on me. “It is the proud Russian patriots who have secured Donetsk and Luhansk from the inept Kiev puppet regime out of noble loyalty to their Motherland.”   
  
“Don’t give me that shit, Vlad,” I shoot back as he drinks. “You invaded Ukraine while covering it up with military exercises. You rigged a dubious referendum in Crimea then sent spetsnaz in to secure your hold, bribed or blackmailed Ukrainian naval officers to defect, and then straight-up invaded the place, an invasion that’s fallen flat on its ass given the numbers involved, to prop a couple of unstable protofascist puppet states.   
  
“Fuck you, Vlad, and fuck your land grabs.”   
  
Putin goes for me, but catches himself before he can get more than a few inches and settles back into his chair with a grimace, draining his glass and reaching blindly to refill it. “Be that as it may, and I categorically disagree on the excellent performance of the military of my great nation, I still control that territory, Trump.” He takes another drink, then grimaces. “I am beginning to regret agreeing to this drink.”   
  
I shrug. “It’s better in the summertime. Kids sell it for a buck a glass, or something like that. There’s a charity based on the concept. Some kid with cancer had a lemonade stand. Anyway. I’m serious about those sanctions, if you ever want to stop running around in circles.” I finish my drink and grab a few bits of cheese and crackers, though I don’t bother eating them.   
  
“I will reiterate my position on the non-negotiability of the independence of the free republics of Donetsk and Luhansk…”   
  
We’re going nowhere. And talking one on one with Putin is pissing me the fuck off. What the Hell is with this guy? I lay out the sweetheart deal, he re-states his demands. I offer a European missile reduction (hard sell as that’ll be to NATO) and he re-states his demands. Nearly half an hour in to the personal talk and I drop the big gun; an offer to unilaterally take US ICBMs off of high alert so it’ll take the US hours to reassemble the damn things in case of a hypothetical Russian launch. He doesn’t even notice and just goes back to re-stating the same crap. It's nuts, almost like he's stalling for time.   
  
I'm starting to run out of ideas. Ease up the sanctions just for Donetsk and Luhansk? That's a step back, and it'd make me look back and encourage Putin. So what do I do?   
  
Then Putin's stomach gurgles loudly, and he winces, grabbing his midsection.   
  
“You alright?” I ask. Wouldn’t do to have Putin barf on me.   
  
“Absolutely,” he replies with a sickly grin, then looks to the pitchers of lemonade…  
  
...and goes pale, eyes wide as he sucks in a breath. “ _Блядь_!”   
  
“Putin?” I ask in confusion as he stands, stomach gurgling again. His chair falls back and hits the ground. “What’s going on? You need a medic?”   
  
He stumbles for the door, clutching his gut. “ _Коробов ... Я собираюсь убить Коробова!_ ” he groans, more to himself than to me, then half-falls out the door. I’m on my feet and following, moving to help him to his feet as his gut gurgles again.   
  
“Hey, we need a medic here! I think he ate something that disagreed with him!” Russian minions swarm to help Putin, and he shouts something in Russian, then…  
  
...his ass  _explodes_  in his pants, I can smell it even as Vinnie and my minions pull me back and Putin’s minions take him, the Russian dictator cussing up a storm as he’s carried away, something brown and foul trickling out of his pants onto his left sock and shoe.   
  
“What the hell just happened?” I ask in confusion.   
  
“I don’t know,” Vinnie says with a frown, “but I have a few ideas.”   
\----------  
_To be continued..._


	3. Fuck the Rich!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comrade Donnie finally closes in on a solid Israel-Palestine truce, and the world begins to succumb to the madness...

_February 26th, 2018. Frankfort, Kentucky._  
  
Amelia Ruiz looked out the window at the line of school buses lining the streets around the state capitol building, and let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.  
  
 _This is it._  
  
She checked her pack again. Emergency snacks, notebook with contact information, medical kit, emergency safety blanket, IWW flag, spare activity books (just in case of an Incident), enough petty cash for a couple of sodas, debit card, and of course her smartphone and charger. Good to go.  
  
“Alright, class!” Amelia exclaimed, turning around as the bus driver opened the doors. “Who’s ready to be a responsible citizen and learn about free speech?”  
  
“ _I AM_!” screamed Jeffrey Morgan at the top of his lungs, bouncing up and down with exuberant glee. The other six-year-olds gazed vacantly at their teacher, not sure why they were on a field trip only a week after the last one. Outside, classes began to filter out onto the green, and a few bystanders took smartphone video.  
  
“Jeffy, remember, let other children talk!” Jeffrey’s mother remonstrated. She offered Amelia an apologetic smile.  
  
“sorry mrs. ruiz,” Jeffrey mumbled dutifully, then brightened. “I wanna learn a lot though!”  
  
“Well, that’s very good, Jeffrey!” Amelia praised with a winning smile. She’d long since stopped giving him gold stars for being excited to learn, unlike the other children. Jeffrey consumed any information thrown his way with a ravenous hunger, which was frankly kind of exhausting after a while. “Follow me, class, and we’ll learn about the history of the Bill of Rights and why you can say whatever you like about the President without fear.”  
  
A redheaded girl with pigtails standing in the shadow of one of the parent chaperones giggled. Amelia turned to her. “Yes, Becky?”  
  
“My Pa says the President’s a fuh-king loony tick!” Becky giggled. The chaperones all turned to glare at the red-haired man at the back of the bus, who had the decency to look embarrassed. “What’s a king loony tick, Mrs. Ruiz?”  
  
“In my defense, I was drunk and didn’t realize she was awake.,” Becky’s father offered. “Yes, I’ve heard it all before.”  
  
“ _Okay_ ,” Amelia jumped back into the conversation before it could deteriorate. “Becky, don’t repeat what your daddy said about the President, OK, or your mommy will have to wash your mouth out with soap.”  
  
Becky giggled even more loudly, her broad grin revealing three missing teeth. “Ma washed Pa’s mouth out with soap! She was  _mad_!”  
  
“Well, your Ma is very polite, then. Now, come this way, class--it’s time to learn about our government!”  
  
“ _Seriously_?” Jeffrey’s mother hissed to Becky’s father as the school group filed out, red and black anarcho-syndicalist flags waving above the burgeoning crowd of teachers and students as the teacher’s union protest assembled. “Jeffy’s going to ask  _me_  what you meant next!”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Becky’s father said in the tone of a man who’d already apologized more times in a week than he ever had in his entire previous life. “Believe me. She won’t shut up about it now, I’ve been sleeping on the couch for a week.”  
  
“Serves you right,” Jeffy’s mother sniffed.  
  
Becky’s father sighed. It was going to be a long day.  
  
There were nearly five thousand teachers, children, and chaperones at the Kentucky state Capitol that day. The next, there were ten thousand.  
  
By March 1st, there were twenty thousand and climbing steadily.  
  
This was only the beginning.  
  
***  
  
 _February 26th. Dubai._  
  
“Hello, Vlad,” I say as I enter the room.  
  
“ _Trump_ ,” Putin snarls from the hospital bed. The whites of his eyes are pink and rapidly going red from burst capillaries. “You are a fucking d--”  
  
“Do you  _really_  wanna finish that?” I ask. He snarls incoherently. I jerk my head at his bodyguard. “How about we clear the room?”  
  
“ _Vozhd_ \--” the guard growls.  
  
“Do it,” Putin snarls, then nods at Vinnie. “Yours, too.”  
  
“Of course. Vinnie.”  
  
“Sir.” My henchman escorts the Russian bodyguard out.  
  
I pull up a chair next to Putin. The Russian dictator glares hate at me from his bed, gripping the railings so hard his knuckles are white. I can hear his teeth grinding.  
  
“So,” I begin. “Let’s cut the shit. Vinnie caught your operatives in the kitchen--don’t worry, they’ll live. Unless they happen to retire to Siberia, of course. We barely even had to interrogate them, your boy Korobov was seat-of-his-pantsing the plan so badly (because he changed the plan from laxatives in the cookies to powder mixed in the drinks at the last minute) that his minions forgot to check the floor for the powdered magnesium citrate mix they used. Some of it spilled, and they were too busy cracking jokes about Anna Chapman’s tits to notice. When they realized the jig was up and we threatened to let the Emir’s security in...well…”  
  
Putin swears in Russian. Something about my mother humping a seal. “All you have are allegations…”  
  
“Get real, Vlad. You and your KGB team outfoxed yourselves so badly you got beaten by an insane millennial with ADHD. I’ve seen five-year-olds that are smarter than you.” Putin bares his teeth, trying to sit up momentarily, going for my throat given how he raises his arms, before the color drains out of his face and he falls back with a whimper. “Now, I am a reasonable man. This is between you and me. And our countries. So, let’s deal.”  
  
“What do you want?” Putin spits.  
  
“You pull out of eastern Ukraine or I tell the world what you tried to do. The next round of sanctions, once I reveal that you tried to poison the POTUS at a diplomatic meeting, oughta be enough to break the Russian economy completely.” He snarls. I shrug right back. “Now, I can keep the Emir and his people quiet. A couple quick bribes and it’s done. But if you fuck with me, I’ll fuck you up, understand?”  
  
Putin bares his teeth as he grits them again. “Damn you.”  
  
“It’s your own stupid fault for drinking the wrong lemonade, Vlad.” And a bit the fault of my preternatural luck, but there’s no need to bring that madness up. “Do we have a deal?”  
  
Putin grinds his teeth, forcing himself to look away from me. After what seems like an eternity but is probably just a minute or two, he finally turns back. “Crimea is rightful Russian clay and will remain part of the glorious Motherland. But I will...attempt to press the legitimate governments of the Donetsk and Luhansk People’s Republics to…”  
  
“You’ll pull out,” I correct him. “Like I said you did on Twitter when I claimed you once fucked a tiger on a dare last week.” Putin snarls with incoherent rage, but gets ahold of himself.  
  
“ _I...will...pull...out…_ ” It sounds like it causes him physical pain.  
  
“You’ll pull out of where?”  
  
If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of atomized ash. “ _I will pull out of Donetsk and Luhansk, you fucking asshole._ ”  
  
“Good.” I pat his hand. He pulls away, glaring venomously at me. “Sleep tight, Vlad. And don’t try to double-cross me, you won’t like it.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Putin spits. “One day, there will be a reckoning, Trump. I will fucking beat you, you son of a bitch. I will bring Russia to greatness, and you will fucking die, you fucking worthless, mother-fucking…”  
  
“You can try again,” I reply with a nod, standing up and heaving for the door. “Just remember what’ll happen if you fuck with me.  
  
“Oh, and one last thing, Vlad? Ramzan Kadyrov is going to be calling you soon. See, while we were talking earlier, my Secretary of State had people smuggling LGBT prisoners out of his crappy little regime before he could throw ‘em in concentration camps. And a few who escaped the camps, too. I got the news fifteen minutes ago that they’re on their way to America.”  
  
Vlad goes pale. I grin, and twist the knife. “There’s going to be some  _interesting_  stories told in the next few days, Vlad. You’re going to regret not agreeing to pull out of Crimea, too.”  
  
Two days later, as I finally make it back to the States following a hand-shaking trip to Jordan and a late-night reception with Jeremy Corbyn in London, GRU chief Igor Korobov “dies” after an “unfortunate heart attack caused by years of smoking”.  
  
I guess Putin can’t apportion blame very well.  
  
***  
  
 _March 1st. The White House._  
  
“I tell you, Vinnie,” I say around my lunch, “it’s all in the symbols.”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“Terminology. Words. Small simple shit that’s got meaning attached.” I tear off a bite of sub and munch on it. “Ugh. I hate that they don’t have the red wine vinegarette at the Subway around here. The Italian-style just doesn’t have the same flavor.”  
  
“I’ll send your complaints along to Subway, Mr. President.”  
  
“Thanks, dude, you’re a bro. Anyway, Vinnie, the thing is, my plan, my movement, these things, they run on symbols. I put up videos for people to watch and learn, but when I go to the rallies, it’s just a rant and  _Break the Chains_!. And the funny thing about that, people hear  _Break the Chains_  and they fill in the blanks. ‘What chains? The ones holding me down!’ Each and every person thinks that. And they  _remember_  the slogan. Rolls right off the tongue. MAGA? Same way! Slap anything on it--MAGA Socialism, MAGA Lesbians, MAGA Jews, MAGA equality, any of that, it still rolls right off the tongue, and people  _remember_  it. I want to get the message of ‘investing in our future human capital by increasing education spending is extremely important’, what do I say? MAGA Education, and people lap it up ‘cause it’s simple and direct.  
  
“This is gonna change the world, Vinnie. Mark my words.”  
  
“It already is, Mr. President,” Annie reports from my right. “We’re seeing increased turnout and leftward swings in all the polls, particularly in key Midwestern and plains states.”  
  
“Then we keep up the pressure. We pass the education bill, we start low-key bringing immigrants and refugees in, I’m riding high off of humiliating Vlad so we can leverage that. Vinnie, while I’m at it on education, contact Chris Evans. I want him to do an ad.”  
  
“On it.”  
  
“Fatima, you got those PR slides?”  
  
“That I do,” my PR lady confirms with a charming grin. She’s cute, in a plump sort of way. Smiles really nicely. “We’re going to focus on the value of education to the future of the country as well as to the individual. You’re going to do some YouTube advertising, we’ll need a brief explanation of the term ‘human capital’, probably some interviews with teachers, and we’ll need a good theme for your national education board plan to pre-empt Republican ‘states’ rights’ rhetoric. I’m already working on that last part.”  
  
“Thanks, Fatima, you’re the best.”  
  
She blushes a bit at that and ducks her head. “Just doing my job, Mr. President.”  
  
“Still. Really like that go-getter attitude. Vinnie, how’s Trump Games, by the way?”  
  
“We are go on the  _Mass Effect_  reboot. Personnel expansion to cover our bases is going well, expenses are up but then you don’t give a shit about the shareholders.”   
  
“I  _am_  the shareholder,” I note. “Don’t drop the announcement yet, when do we get Hale?”  
  
“Tomorrow. We should have the trailer ready by Tuesday.”  
  
“Then we announce on Tuesday. Fatima, how ‘bout a simultaneous drop on  _DonnieTube_  and the Trump Games channel?”  
  
“Synergy is good, but I think that the  _DonnieTube_  channel should be restricted to your  _Dungeons and Dragon_ s sessions and propaganda. Speaking of which, I’ll need you for filming education ads tomorrow and the day after.”  
  
“Gonna have to move the schedule back a day. I got Chris Evans.”  
  
“...the actor?”  
  
“Yeah, Captain America.” I chuckle. “Wait until you see this shit.”  
  
“Alright then. Annie, can you…”  
  
“Already marked it down,” my admin confirms. “Wilson, how’s security on E3?”  
  
“We can fly him out, but I’m not sure of the PR implications,” Vinnie says. “Also there’s a legal possible red flag. Emoluments clause. Hell, the only reason he’s allowed to do PR for  _Supergirl_  is because that’s what he does instead of golfing.”  
  
“It might reflect badly on the President,” Fatima concurs. “I think that holding an event at the White House in support of the teacher’s union strikes in Oklahoma, Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Louisiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee would be better.” The strikes, which began while I was in Jordan on my way back from Dubai, have thrown half the country’s public schools into chaos; the teachers are demanding higher wages, more benefits, more emphasis on social sciences, stricter standards for history and science curricula, and more regulation on charter schools. Thousands of teachers are sitting in at state capitols. Teach-ins at said state capitols, protests in front of state legislators’ houses, everything.  
  
And everywhere, the black and red banner and the chant of  _MAGA Education, MAGA Syndicalism_.  
  
“Ooh, good idea,” I jump in. “Make it big. Bold. Dramatic! Then I can fuck off to comic-con to promote the CW shows and nobody’ll care.”  
  
Annie rolls her eyes. “Sir. I’ll work with Fatima to organize it.”  
  
“Awesome, Annie, Fatima, you two are the best.” Fatima blushes. I stand, throwing the paper wrapper for my sub in the trash. “Alright, ‘scuse me a sec, gotta piss.”  
  
Vinnie trails me like a shadow as I head to the bathroom. Can’t be too careful with Putin openly gunning for me, I guess.  
  
***  
  
 _March 3rd. Cleveland, Ohio._  
  
“I hope the food’s worth the wait,” a muscular blonde grumbled, sitting opposite a dark-haired man. Lucky’s Cafe was  _packed_ , as usual, and all four of the people who sat were a little crabby after flying coach and dealing with the man’s elaborate secrecy precautions.  
  
“It is,” the man assured her as a taller blonde and a dark-haired woman picked up their menus. All four people wore outsized sunglasses and hats or hoodies as well as dark parkas. “Farm to table. Comrade Donnie and I had a meet here last year while we were prepping for Comic-Con. He had a speech later that day, I think he dressed up like Kim Il-Sung, complete with a fake neck tumor. Anyway, I’m sorry for the cloak and dagger stuff, but I feel like I owe Comrade Donnie something really special after all that fancy wine he sent me. And the gift basket at my wedding. And the deed to a place in Cancun that was in that gift basket, if I’m to be a hundred percent honest.”  
  
“...he’s really that corrupt?” the taller blonde asked in amazement.  
  
“Only about really petty things. And technically nothing illegal occurred.”  
  
“That seems more the law’s problem,” the dark-haired woman noted.  
  
“Probably,” shrugged the man. “Either way. Here’s the storyboarding so far, keep in mind this is super confidential, as in you will be fired if you leak it confidential, and subject to change based on your advice.” He passed all three women manilla folders from under his coat. “Obviously I won’t make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with, but I really want to give Comrade Donnie a really special, really gay surprise, and this is the best idea I and the writers have come up with.”  
  
The shorter blonde set her menu aside and flipped through the folder. “OK, I kinda get what you’re going for,” she said, nodding as she read. “But...all three of us, together?”  
  
“Pretty much,” the man admitted. He leaned forwards. “Basically, I want all three of you to go up on camera, and the concept is, you’re gayer than I am,” a tall order considering that the man was not even three months married to another man, “and in love with each other and it’s awkward. It’s exactly the sort of thing that  _Legends_  is perfect for and it’s going to drive Comrade Donnie into a squealing fanfic-writing conniption fit.”  
  
“That’s a good thing?” the tall blonde asked skeptically.  
  
“Yeah, he’s really a millennial at heart.” The man scanned down his menu, then set it aside. “But in a nutshell--you all can do queer as a three dollar bill, and as a queer man myself I want to ensure representation of LGBT people, something that Comrade Donnie actively and eagerly supports. And his MO on writing  _Supergirl_  is MSGA--Make Supergirl Gay Again. I think that we can out-do that; the  _Legends_  writing team took Donnie’s slogan as a  _challenge_.”  
  
The women looked at each other. The short blonde spoke up first. “Well, I like working with Katrina, so I wouldn’t be averse at all personally...not sure how the fans will react, though.”  
  
“Are you kidding?” chuckled the tall blonde. “Have you  _seen_  the social media figures? I did, thanks to the PR people.”  
  
“Jes is right,” the brunette agreed. “The fans want--how was it that you put it, Greg? Bold creative decisions?” The man nodded.  
  
“Fair enough, then,” the shorter blonde said. “Let’s do this.”  
  
“Excellent,” the man grinned. “Just remember. This is a surprise for Comrade Donnie, so we keep it on the down-low as long as possible.”  
  
“Got it,” the shorter blonde grinned. “Oh, and what about trans representation? I know the President’s big on that.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” the man chuckled. “I already have some stuff written up with Comrade Donnie for  _Supergirl_  with regards to that, and you wouldn’t  _believe_  what I have planned for next season. Besides, I’m already inserting polyamory, it’s not like the Suits will care about trans characters being written in after this.”  
  
“Should I be worried?” the taller blonde asked.  
  
“Nah,” the shorter blonde replied, flagging down a server. “Just be prepared for being yelled at by Fox News and manbabies on the Internet.”  
  
***  
  
 _March 6th._  
  
“Secretary Walker, how are the negotiations going?” I ask into my phone.  
  
“ _Better than I hoped, Mr. President. You’re able to circumvent Congress to let the refugees in?_ ” Angela Walker, my Secretary of State, sounds pretty happy, the Kenyans must be downright glad to have gay refugees out of their country. Which sucks, but...at least I can provide a stopgap measure.  
  
“Yeah, I’ve got my executive order ready. Hell, the Russians are already on the ship. Which reminds me, remind me to thank the Co-Presidents of Rojava already. Hey, where’d you get the idea to use Kurdish arms smugglers to get gay people out of Russia?”  
  
“ _A TV show, Mr. President. I, uh, got hooked on this government procedural about a woman who’s Secretary of State._ ” Walker chuckles nervously. “ _I was_ so _not ready for this job._ ”  
  
“Eh, you’ve got a bureaucracy under you, they’ll keep you situated.” Thousands of LGBT Russians--some evacuated from Chechnya via smugglers, some recruited after becoming dissatisfied with the situation in Ukraine after leaving Russia for that country--are on their way here through various planes and ships, and I’m gonna piss off Vlad like you wouldn’t believe. So why not extend the protection to some more people? “Just get ‘em here, and make the threat to Nairobi--improve their LGBT protections or I’ll put the screws on them.”  
  
“ _They’re not going to like that. Geeta Pasi--she’s Assistant Secretary, head of the Bureau of African Affairs--she says we need to counterbalance Chinese influence in the region or some such imperialist justification like that. I hate to admit it but I can see what she means, China has no compunctions about buying out governments for its corporations’ benefit._ ”  
  
“Then you’re authorized to offer a sweetener for compliance. Presidential visit, maybe. Handshake, maybe I slip a little white envelope into Kenyatta’s pocket, whatever. If he gets greedy, shut him down. Either way, use your best judgement, alright?”   
  
“ _I...will pretend that I didn’t hear that casual reference to bribery, Mr. President._ ”  
  
“Eh, I’m Donald Trump, I think I’m  _supposed_  to be corrupt or something like that. Anyway. Enjoy Kenya. Make the evac happen as a temporary measure. Alright?”  
  
“ _I’m on it, Mr. President._ ”  
  
“Fantastic. Break the chains, Comrade!”  
  
“ _Break the chains, Mr. President. Have a nice day, sir._ ”  
  
I hang up. “Vinnie, get me the executive order for the refugees. We do this, then we start moving more Syrians in.” A little-known POTUS power is the ability to set quotas for refugees entering the USA.  
  
So two months ago I set the quota for the year at 7 billion people.  
  
“Here you are, Mr. President.”  
  
“Awesome, thanks, Vinnie.” Mitch McConnel is going to hate me even more for this, but fuck him. The hardcore xenophobes are gonna scream blue murder, but fuck ‘em--huh, maybe I’ll have Islamophobes trying to kill me next. Fun thought, that. I really am losing my mind.  
  
I sign. “Get that moving. We keep the cameras off of this shit. We keep the cameras on education and Trump Games--speaking of, Vinnie, Fatima?”  
  
My chief henchman grins as he hands the executive order off to a flunky. One of the interns we use as gofers, I think. “Oh, it’s a good one, Mr. President.” He walks around my desk, and I scoot aside so he can type something into my computer. “Here we go.”  
  
The launch trailer’s on YouTube. I grin like a shark and wave the women around the table. “Oh, yeah, here we go…” I haven’t been able to do much for this, but Vinnie’s had people on it ever since I bought EA.  
  
Jennifer Hale’s voice starts us off as the text scrolls.

**In the year 2148, explorers on Mars discovered the remains of an ancient spacefaring civilization. In the decades that followed, these mysterious artifacts revealed startling new technologies, enabling travel to the furthest stars. The basis for this incredible technology was a force that controlled the very fabric of space and time.**

**They called it the greatest discovery in human history.**

**The civilizations of the galaxy call it the... MASS EFFECT.**

  
“ _Just a routine patrol mission,_ ” Jennifer Hale’s smoky drawy offers with a sardonic lilt. “ _That’s what it was supposed to be._ ” A shot of  _Normandy_  approaching Eden Prime, Commander Shepard with red hair and green eyes, striding out of a shuttle as she puts on her helmet, two men in black power armor right behind her. “ _Heh. When do things ever go according to plan for me?_ ”

A flash, and one of the men drops. Cue CGI Shep vs. geth fight scene. Snippets of combat--CGI, not the base game. “ _I’m Commander Shepard. For years I’ve been an N7, the best of the best of the Systems Alliance’s special forces. Now, I’m the only person who can save the galaxy_.” She touches the Prothean beacon, and a flash of green consumes the screen.

Darkness.

“ _A threat beyond anything we could’ve imagined is coming. We sure as Hell aren’t ready._ ” Shots of Saren with his cyber-implants, the villain beckoning his geth after him. “ _Most people don’t believe me, and I know I’m running low on time. I’ve got only one option: Get a team, get a ship, and stop the coming storm before it’s too late._ ”

Shots of Shepard shaking hands with Wrex, Garrus lining up a shot, Ashley (OG Ashley, not the sexed-up plastic doll from the third game, I am a stickler by jingo) reloading a rifle under fire, Liara going full biotic badass mode, Tali shocking a geth at close range, and then Shepard striding through them all amid a firefight, blowing geth and husks aside with ease, her squad forming up around her as she grins confidently into the camera. The music swells to a crescendo.

“ _I’m Commander Shepard. And I need your help._ ”

The title screen slams down, white on black.  **MASS EFFECT: THE COMMANDER SHEPARD SAGA; ENHANCED EDITION** , it blares. Holds for three seconds, with purchasing info, including the “FREE to owners of previous Mass Effect editions”, then cuts to a silent features screen, displaying the new version’s benefits; completely revamped ending to the third game, expanded content for all three games but especially the third, reworked graphics and tweaked combat (well, revamped for the clunky first game), a removal of microtransactions and rebalancing of ME3’s multiplayer, and promises for new DLC including expanded roles for DLC companions, new companions for the third game, and of course the one that I demanded and that’s going to drive the speculation crazy, a promise for a “alternate-universe storyline for Mass Effect 2 and 3, coming estimated 2022”. (it helps that the games are already  _there_  and most of what we’re doing is tweaking rather than rebuilding from the ground up, but still, making what’s effectively two whole new games while also heavily editing three more is...not easy).

I lean back in my chair and slow-clap. “Vinnie, my man, that rocks. Go both barrels. Keep me posted on the reaction, OK?”

“You got it, Mr. President.”

I swivel in my chair, noting that the curtains are clashing with my IWW flags. Hmm. Might have to change the damn things. Black oughta be good. “Fatima, what’ve you got for me?”

She pulls up another video, this one on the  _DonnieTube_  channel. “Education ad, Mr. President. Here’s the final product.”

The video begins with me, wearing a stupid graduation cap and a grain-and-gear shirt. “ _Welcome_ ,” video me says. Oh, man, I remember this bit. “T _o DonnieTube Academy! Today we’re talking about education, the glorious cause of the future of our nation that a lot of brave Americans are out protesting for this very day! A bunch of teachers are fighting for our kids, fighting for education improvements across the nation, from Alabama to Michigan, from Los Angeles to the beating heart of MAGA Socialism in Burlington, from the patriotic soil of West Virginia to the foggy forests of Washington._ ” The protests have been spreading, and this year’s round is rapidly reaching critical mass, with state legislatures in panic mode trying to appease a movement now in the high tens of thousands of teachers alone and climbing fast. The pressure has to be brutal for state governments, PTA groups across the country are marching out in support of the protest movement, and hell hath no fury like an angry PTA mom. “ _Here to explain why this fight is so important in a kid-friendly manner is my good friend, CAPTAIN AMERICA!_ ”

Chris Evans and Kevin Feige still kind of owe me a lot of favors for nuking Ike Perlmutter’s career through the floor. Well, Feige does. I think Evans just liked the idea. .

Evans comes on screen, wearing his outfit from the first Captain America movie as Yankee Doodle plays. Still looks super badass. “ _Hey there, folks. I’m Captain America. And I’m here to tell you why education’s so important, not just for you, but for the future of your nation._ ”

He steps up on a block and leans into the camera with a winning smile. “ _See, in the modern world, the future of this great nation rests on the education and brain power--what people in the government like to call ‘human capital’. That’s basically a rough measure of the amount of people who know science, math, and advanced technology, the fields of knowledge that won us World War 2 and led us to greatness in the space age. More recently, it’s come to include all knowledgeable people, as well--so if you’re into history, art, even veterinary work, you’re still doing your part for our human capital by getting a good education._

“ _Countries with lots of human capital can more easily stay at the forefront of technology. They’re also harder for our enemies like Vladimir Putin and his corrupt oligarch cronies, or the neo-Nazis who want to turn our country into a rotten fascist regime, to subvert with propaganda and lies. The more you know that’s true, the better you are at spotting the lies. So, by getting a good education--staying in school, going to college, things that Comrade Donnie’s trying to get for every American with his proposed education reform bill--YOU can help defend your home from threats foreign and domestic. All you gotta do is stay in school, get good grades, and learn critical thinking skills so you can see through the lies like a detective._ ” Behind the costumed Evans, an animated blackboard displays a cartoon kid going to school, reading books, graduating, getting a job, fixing a car, and rejecting leaflets handed to him by a scowling cartoon Putin. “ _Do your part to better yourself and better America. Secure a prosperous and stable future for our nation. Get your education and make sure it’s the best you can find. Break the chains for education!_ ”

Old Glory replaces the blackboard, and Evans straightens, saluting crisply. “ _I’m Captain America, and I stayed in school for the future of my nation._ ”

“Damn,” I mutter. “Good work, Fatima.” I pat her on the back, and she stumbles, flushing again. “This is just what we need. Get that out on all the networks, I’ll Tweet it right now.” Trump’s baby fingers are already going for my phone. “Annie, you agree?” 

“It’s certainly a very Comrade Donnie ad, Mr. President.”

“Fair enough,” I chuckle. “Hey, how’re you guys doing, anyway? Personal life wise.”

“I’m good,” Vinnie says. “Liz is still trying to figure out what to do with that mansion you gave us--uh, about that, by the way, don’t go near her for, uh, maybe two months? She’s going nuts trying to find a use for all that space. And the only reason we’re able to pay the capital gains tax is because of that Saudi blood money you gave me a cut of.”

“Um, should I be aware of this brazen corruption?” Fatima asks in concern. Annie shakes her head at her friend with a roll of her eyes

“Eh, as long as you don’t tell anyone, we’re cool,” I reply. “How’s the kid, Vinnie.”

“That’s the other reason you shouldn’t go near Liz. Actually, now that I think of it, maybe have a safe house ready at Camp David 24/7 just in case she shows up.”

“Why, what happened?”

“Natalie’s first words were ‘bweak chains’.”

I snicker reflexively at that, then my blood runs cold as I realize he’s not pulling my leg. “Oh fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuuuuuuuck.”

“She’s pretty angry with you right now, Mr. President.”

“Would getting the kid some grain and gear shirts or IWW themed outfits help?”

“Honestly, that would probably make things worse.”

“Got it.” I change the topic eagerly. “Annie! How are things?”

“Well, not as great as they were on the vacation, largely because I have to deal with your madness,” my admin snarks. “Thanks for the vacation, by the way. Vivian’s actually enjoying the D&D sessions. Gave her some bedroom ideas, actually.”

“...what.”

She snorts. “You’re adorably vanilla, kiddo. Coach and athlete, I top, she’s the soccer star.”

“No, I mean, I was in college, there was quality sex ed and I’ve been late-night fanfic surfing on Ao3 enough times to accidentally click on mistagged smut once or twice. Or three times. And an unlabeled omegaverse fic, which, lemme tell you,  _that_  was scarring. Plus I kinda used google. For my own fanfic. It’s complicated, a kinda dark but optimistic Star Trek thing, I’ll tell you later. But what I mean is, D&D to sex?”

“...like I said. Adorably vanilla.” She pats my cheek. I look away in desperation, and meet Fatima’s gaze; the plump woman’s blushing deeper than I feel like I am. 

“Uh, how about you, Fatima?”

“Oh, um…” She clears her throat nervously. “You know. Bad Tinder dates. I’ve basically sworn it off now. Now it’s just me and take-out.”

“Fair enough.” I push back my chair. “I know the feeling. I’ve never even been  _on_  a date, heh.”

“Ever want more?” Annie asks pointedly.

“Thought about it.” I shrug as I stand. “In my original life, I had friends. Who needs romance when you’ve got friends? Here--you and Vinnie, you  _sort of_  qualify. But Vinnie’s my bodyguard and henchman, and you’re...well...you. It’s not the same.” 

They all nod along. “If it helps,” Annie says, gently this time, “Even though I get tired of your lunacy, I  _am_ here for you if you need it.”

“Thanks,” I manage, and she lets me hug her. “That means a lot.”

“We know, kid. We know.” 

***

_March 11th. New York City._

I wave to the screaming crowd as I walk out onto the stage, wearing nothing but a tight red, white, and blue Speedo and red body paint with a grain and gear in the heart of my torso. John Oliver, impressively, seems entirely unsurprised.

“Mr. President,” Oliver begins when I’m seated and the crowd’s shut up.

“Mr. Prime Minister,” I counter. Oliver freezes.

“...uh, what?”

I snap my fingers to Vinnie with a grin, and he hands me a smartphone with a near-perfect poker face. “John, you’re the Prime Minister of Italy.”

“What.”

“Thirty minutes ago, John.” I grin like a shark. “See, last week, it was the Democrats, Free and Equal, and Power to the People coalitions that won in Italy. Largely because the League and Forza Italia imploded, Davide Cassaleggio is now basically a permanent guest in Moscow, and Luigi DiMaio is on trial for taking bribes from an American agent using his own party’s funds. After you offered yourself as a candidate for Prime Minister, and I revealed the depth of corruption in the legislature itself, Pietro Grasso got a huge amount of positive press two weeks ago because his sarcastic statement endorsing you as Prime Minister was taken seriously.” You know, just the usual sort of madness that’s increasingly happening without my direct interference. “So...basically, it seems that now the Left has replaced the Right and the establishment, well, uh, they formed a left-wing government and you’re Prime Minister.”

“What.”

“You’re the Prime Minister of Italy, John.” I show him the smartphone screen. “There’s a good chance this’ll get through their courts, too, because of the very loophole you pointed out. Your government is going to consist of a mix of center-left neoliberals, neo-Keynesian social-democrats, and a bunch of leftists, with some outright communists mixed in.

“Congratulations.”

Oliver slumps over his desk, the color draining from his face. “Oh my God.”

“Hail Satan,” I echo him.

“Oh my fucking God.”

“You said that already.”

“You fucking madman. You did it. You actually fucking did it.”

“Yup,” I reply, popping the P. “The best part? None of the people who voted to make you Prime Minister did it because they were bribed to. Not one single member of that legislature took my bribes.”

“But...but  _why_  would they pick  _me_?”

“Well, after your video went viral, Berlusconi and Cassaleggio fled Italy, and outright socialists won a third of the seats, I guess what’s left of the Italian government thought you were a good choice.”

“That’s insane.”

“That it is, John. But hey! I threatened to nuke Israel a few months ago and now Israel and Palestine are on the brink of signing a landmark peace deal. They’re even working out a deal for the illegal Israeli settlements, it’s amazing what people will do to avoid being nuked off the face of the Earth. Anyway, if I’d told you last year, when I gave you those anal beads and the golden shower tape with commentary, that I would have forced Israel and Palestine to make nice with each other by threatening to drop enough B-83s to glass both down to the bedrock, would you have believed me? Nah, you’d call me insane.

“Well, John, I am insane. This fucking  _world_  is insane, my man. And right now, it’s insane in a way that’s fucking hilarious. So...are you gonna take the job?”

He stares at me like I’m insane. “...you’re going to drive me out of my job.”

“If I do, I’ll hire you for my team, Mr. Prime Minister. I need a jester--someone witty and informative.”

“Oh  _god_ ,” Oliver whimpers, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know anything about running a country!”

“In fairness, Mr. Prime Minister, neither do I.”

***

_March 17th. The Oval Office._

“...and with a  _Mwahahahahahaaa!_  of evil laughter, David the Despicable unleashes his dark power on Lady Jenna! The Dark Lord shoots arcs of crackling lighting from his fingers, Palpatine style, and like everything else about this motherfucker, the lightning is super fucking white, just like his pasty skin and his stupid Klan sheet. Tiffany, I’m going to need a Reflex save.”

Trump’s daughter rolls a d20 obediently. “23, Dad.”

“Success, you take half damage...so…” I roll some six-sided dice. “15 damage.”

“OK. Lady Jenna takes the lightning on her shield, blunting the Dark Lord’s attack. She grits her teeth heroically, standing her ground against his power!”

“Awesome. Prepare yourselves for the final battle, heroes, for David the Despicable’s racist magic is insidious and vile, and his motley crew of followers may be brainwashed bigoted idiots but they are many and merciless! Alright, Barron, it’s Star-Lord’s turn, then Obama’s.”

“ _Sweet_!” Barron crows. “OK, so Star-Lord is maintaining his Over the Top minor aura, and his Motivate Ardor major aura, and uses Grant Move Action to give his triceratops Bloodspiker an extra move action. Then he uses a standard action to order his triceratops to charge Dark Lord Dave, using his collar of freedom of movement to avoid the caltrops, with the enhanced critical…”

“Roll your attack,” I cut him off before he can burn too much video time with the math. Tiffany is giving him a Look again.

He rolls the d20. “47, natural 19”

“Is that a critical threat?” I sigh.

“Yeah, Bloodspiker took Improved Critical (Gore) last hit die he advanced.”

“OK, roll to confirm.”

He already has. “30, Dad.”

“...what.”

“Natural 2, Dad.”

Tiffany facepalms.

“...I regret OKing that character.” I sigh. “OK. Critical hit. Damage roll.”

“Sweet! Alright, so damage...times four from the critical…” He rolls a couple of eight-sided dice, and writes out a quick calculation. “...times four is 92.”

I lean back in my chair with a groan. Tiffany is now openly glaring at Barron. “You kill him. You one-hit-kill the fucking master villain I’ve been building up for a dozen sessions”

“ _Duh_ ,” the kid snarks. “Improved critical and enhanced adamantine horns give great DPS, Dad. Star-Lord moves up to look for loot.”

_OK, you little shit…_ “Duke David the Despicable, Dark Lord of the Fiery Cross Klan, is defeated, but a wisp of fell power rises from his corpse. As Star-Lord approaches, they form into a new, fell form…”

“Oh, cool, a second boss fight!” Barron crows.

“Yeah, but you’re going to have to  _wait_  to have this thing eaten,” I counter.

“But shouldn’t we roll for initiative, Dad?” He grins with the surety of a man with Improved Initiative who traded his ability to write erotic slam poetry for +6 to initiative checks and managed to justify it in his small novel of a backstory. (it’s actually not that bad a story, as blatant excuses to powergame go)

This kid is fucking impossible to DM for!

“Star-Lord is caught by a sneaky evil ward that Duke David had up. Saving throw versus Will.”

Barron rolls. “42.”

Motherfucker. “OK. Opposed Charisma roll against mine.” I reach out to grab the die personally from a minion.

“OK...what the--Dad! I pre-rolled all the ones out of these dice!”

I roll, and it comes up a natural 20. “Ooh, tough shit, kid. You get temporarily frozen so you have to roll for initiative again.”

He grumbles but complies. His next die, too, comes up a 1, and he mutters something about bullshit. God I’m such a fucking terrible parent. I roll a natural 20 again, then hand the die off to a minion. Tiffany, Obama, Agent Clay, and Annie all roll and get that order in between the racist demon inhabiting Duke Dave and the unfortunate Star-Lord.

If Barron’s going to abuse the rules, I’m going to abuse my supernatural luck.

***

_March 22nd._

“You know, Vinnie, I’ve been pretty open with my low opinion of the Clintons, haven’t I?”

Vinnie raises an eyebrow at me. “What did you Tweet yesterday afternoon, sir?”

“Yester…” I frown, and go for my phone. “What time?” 

“Oh, ‘bout 4:30.”

I check. “Oh.”  
  
  


“Um. Shit.” Man, I don’t even  _remember_  doing that shit! “How are my poll numbers doing?”

“Holding steady. Jerry Falwell hates you and the DNC is pissed as hell but I think that being tough on Nazis is keeping your popularity steady.”

“Well. At least I wasn’t planning to pal around with Hillary.”

“If it helps, Mr. President, I agree that better family planning is a good thing. But--Fatima and Annie will be quite upset, let’s put it like that.”

“Yeah,” I groan. “Goddamn it. I should’ve stuck to pissing off Putin.”

***

_March 26th._

“Make sure the gameplay footage is ready to drop,” I order Vinnie, grabbing a thick binder from my desk. “And tell Mattis I’m studying up on dos and don’ts and finishing off my speech. I’m deadly serious about this ceremony.”

“Yes, sir,” my henchman confirms with a salute.

“Oh, hey, one last thing, dude--how’s the response to the  _Mass Effect_  reveal?”

“Mostly positive so far. A YouTuber called AngryJoe covered the trailer and went on a thirty-minute rant about why you ordering the reboot is the greatest thing ever to happen to video games, that seems to have gotten a lot of positive attention coming in.”

“Oh, snap! I like AngryJoe! Annie, invite Joe Vargas to the Correspondents’ Dinner, will you? Or the 4th of July party or something, offer him an exclusive interview or something.”

“Mr. President, there are legal issues to consider--” my admin points out.

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” I say with a grin, and fling the door open, almost running into Fatima on the way out. “Oh, hey, sorry--damn, that headscarf looks great on you.”

Fatima blushes, one hand coming up to the red garment with a design of yellow grain and gears. “Thank you, Mr. President, I thought it’d be funny. You don’t look too bad yourself, the suit looks almost Presidential.”

“Well, it is and it looks great. And, uh, thanks! Heh, never really thought of myself as anything other than the appearance equivalent of soggy cabbage.” She steps aside and I leave the Oval Office, throwing a last look back over my shoulder as Vinnie hands Annie a 20, which she puts in her back pants pocket with one of her own. “Hey, guys, I gotta go give a speech, then it’s study time. I don’t think I’ll need you unless there’s some emergency, so do what you gotta do.”

“You got it, Mr. President,” Vinnie assures me. I let Fatima lead me off to my speech.

Man, I hope I can prep well for this visit. And that the Israelis and Palestinians don’t fuck it up.

***

_March 30th. Jerusalem._

The Grand Ayatollah draws to a close, Fatima doubling as my translator as she whispers a rough approximation of what the old guy’s saying in my ear. Lot of stuff about People of the Book and God forbidding aggressive acts and condemning the soul of any truce-breakers to Hell. Cheery stuff. Finally he finishes, gets some applause from the Palestinians in the audience and the dignitaries (even Barkat manages a political smile and a convincingly robust series of claps), and is ushered aside.

My turn.

“Go get ‘em, Mr. President,” Vinnie rumbles.

“Here goes nothing,” I tell my friend/henchman/bodyguard/whatever he is now, and try not to get swallowed by the pit in my stomach as I step forwards.

Really,  _really_  should’ve mainlined Absolut before this. Or taken some LSD. I wish I was tripping right now, I am not ready for this.

“Howdy,” I open with. I get confused looks. “Uh, I’m Comrade Donnie.” I clear my throat, take a breath. “We’re here to make history. These men--” and I gesture behind me, one by one, “--Nir Barkat, Khaled Mashal, and Mahmud Abbas, have done what everybody said was impossible. They’ve made peace, and they did it by seeing each other as people and reaching a mutually acceptable compromise. Nobody in this deal wins everything they wanted, nobody loses anything too major. Israel still exists but doesn’t get to keep the illegal settlements. Palestine gets to have all the organs of state and freedom from Israeli oppression, but Fatah will be lucky to stay in power without spit-shining Israeli jackboots and Hamas is gonna have to learn how to be a state actor, and that’s gonna be an  _experience_. But at the end of the day, the deaths and violence are going to stop. People are gonna go to school. Go to work. Grow up. All of it safely, without fearing Hamas terrorists or Israeli warplanes or Palestinian rockets or random acts of violence by the IDF. Nationalists won’t be happy, sure. Some people will scream about needing to conquer ‘Judea and Samaria’ and purge the Muslims, some people will scream about re-taking ‘48 and driving the Zionists to the sea.

“They can fuck off, because if they try it the full power of the United States military will annihilate them. And it’s all because of these men--flawed, imperfect men, Abbas is corrupt, Mashal is bullshitting like crazy when he claims he knows nothing about guerilla attacks, Barkat’s a good bit more racist than he’s willing to admit. But you know what? Those flawed, imperfect men sat down and hammered out a compromise in the clutch. You know who else did? The guys who wrote the US Constitution. Those men were scum, by our standards. Half of the bastards slave-owners, Hamilton trying to sneak in a weird sort of aristocratic authoritarianism, the New Englanders and the Southerners trying to rig the legislature to their benefit--that’s why we’ve got a House and a Senate, compromise between north and south.

“And those greedy, self-interested, racist bastards, every one of them a fucking dirtbag by our modern standards, none of them even half as good as the men who cooked up the treaty we’re here to sign today, they cooked up a system of government that’s stood for nearly two and a half centuries and will stand for a thousand years more. So look at these men--these petty, self-interested, bigoted, flawed men, and this walking garbage fire of a person in my best suit--and think, people.

“ _They_  came together and came up with a treaty that can  _last_. A treaty, an agreement, a blueprint for a system of government and mutual accord that can and will last a thousand years. Because they realized something, locked in a room with me as I threatened to glass this entire shithole down to the bedrock while dressed as Bozo the Clown. They realized that ‘48, Judea and Samaria--these things don’t really matter, at the end of the day. Rightful territories and rockets, stolen homes and apartheid walls, these things are things of fear, of suspicion and mindless hate, and thus they are dust in the fucking wind compared to life--the lives of the people of Israel and Palestine, and the lives of the generations of the future who will grow up here, in nice homes in a peaceful country because these men had the balls to sit down and hammer out a framework that they could all accept, even if it wasn't all they wanted.

“And this peace, this treaty, is all the stronger because it was forged by a bunch of dipshits and fuckups being threatened by a madman in a shitty toupee. Because if  _we_  can do it? There’s no excuse for the rest of you.

“You know what the kicker, the real knee-slapper of this whole fucking thing is, though?” I chuckle. “You fuckers are all related anyway.” A ripple of confusion runs through the crowd. “Seriously, read a genetics study sometime. Ever wonder who was farming Palestine for nineteen hundred years after the Romans kicked folks out? I mean, it wasn’t just the Samaritans. The Samaritans were here, sure, but they’re a glorified splinter sect, probably started by a feud between rival pre-rabbinic priests. The Romans, they were only looking to ethnically cleanse politically inconvenient people, politically active city types. What god do you think the peasantry of the rural areas worshiped? What traditions did they follow?”

I shake my head. “There’s a reason why Ashkenazim and Palestinian Muslims share a considerable majority of their genetic markers. It’s because Palestinians are literally descended from converted Jews--sure, they didn’t have rabbis and their faith probably resembled the pre-rabbinic Yahweh cult before they converted to Christianity and Islam over the years, but I mean, who’s going to waste perfectly good farmers on perfectly good land? Hell, they were  _still_  there as tenant farmers in the 20th century when rich Zionists started buying up land from Ottoman bigwigs in Baghdad. The Zionists didn’t get that they were buying land with tenants to exploit, not open space for a colony. Stupid mistake, but it’s the sort of thing you fuck up when you’re high on nationalism and colonialism.”

I spread my arms with a stupid Trump smile. “Congratulations. You motherfuckers have been killing your distant relations for generations. Great job. You’re all going to Hell!

“Lucky for you that these men have given you a way to avoid that fate.”

I pause for a moment to drink from the water bottle that’s been set up at the podium. “So that’s why we’re here. We’re going to sign an agreement that even a racist, an idiot, or a lunatic like me would agree is workable, and we’re doing it in front of some of the holiest places in your religions just for good measure.

“Make your children proud of you, people. Commit to this peace. You can make it work. I know you can.”

Then everything goes to shit.

***

Major Eli Shamir ground his teeth as he heard the American pig speak.  _Related to the sand rats? How DARE he!_  It was true what Bennett said, Trump was worse than the Nazis. At least, as the rabbis at Bnei David had said, Hitler had had the right ideas, except that he had thought the wrong race was superior.

Good enough that they’d be ending the cancer today, though. Trump and the stain of liberal “tolerance” and filthy multiculturalism needed to be expunged, so that the Jewish race could finally ignore the UN’s mewling about the terrorist sand monkeys’ “human rights” and claim the rightful territory of Greater Israel. Shamir turned to the man on his right, the younger officer, hand-picked for his reliability by Shamir, white-knuckled with nerves, rage at the indignity done to his race, or possibly both.

“Steel yourself. It is time.”

“Yes, Major,” the younger man muttered back. Shamir pulled his radio to his mouth, making sure it was tuned to the private frequency.

“This is Major Shamir. Today we are at a crossroads. You have all heard Trump--he wants to deny our people the Muslim-free living space that we need to expand into for the security of our race. He wants to eradicate Jewish power from the face of the earth through insidious multiculturalism! He must be destroyed. Begin Operation Samson. Hail to the homeland! Hail Israel!”

***

The crowd’s actually starting to applaud, Barkat and the Palestinians shaking hands with big grins (Barkat and Mashal even patting each other on the back, though I’m certain that’s just for show, they’re too awkward about it for anything else), when a blast rocks the square, and the wall behind me. A cloud of smoke rises down a nearby street, and screams split the air.

Vinnie’s on me in an instant, hauling me aside as Barkat leaps forward on some base instinct--probably left over from his time in the military. “Evacuate, now!” Vinnie shouts, and Secret Service agents swarm the podium, forming a human wall as gunfire breaks out on a rooftop, IDF soldiers shooting at another who’s aiming at my podium. Vinnie shoves me down, and bullets stitch a line of holes on the sacred wall behind me.

Shit, there are a  _lot_  of religious leaders who’ll be pissed at me over that.

“Get the clerics out!” Vinnie roars to somebody, then waves a trio of Secret Service agents after me, the delegates joining the pack with their own security details and aides. “Move, move, move!” The IDF turncoat across the square falls under fire from his former compatriots, but there’s still gunfire sounding, and another explosion sends up a burst of smoke further into the city.

It was all going so  _well_! What the fuck happened?

"Move!" Vinnie roars into my ear as I, Barkat, Abbas, the Hamas leaders, and a half-dozen aides are hustled down what I'm sure is a very nice historic street on days when it's not full of panicked people, sporadic gunfire sounds, and the rest of the chaos of the hasty evacuation. "Keep your head  _down_ , sir! This way!"

"Keep an eye on the dignitaries! We need them alive!"

"My priority is you, Mr. President! Clay, cover the--"

"Muslim  _pigs_!" screams a new voice, and I turn to see an older man in black clothes with a long beard, charging the Hamas delegation with a switchblade. Vinnie turns, but I’m in his way. "Israel must remain  _pure_ , free from Arab fi--guh!"

Barkat steps in his way, grabbing the man's arm and kneeing him in the gut, but the knife hand's moving too fast, and the Israeli PM grunts in pain as the knife cuts into his arm a bit below the shoulder. "No...you... _don't_!" he snarls, and the knife tears out of his arm and clatters to the ground. Vinnie's already in motion, and his pistol butt hits the back of the bearded fanatic's head.

"What the  _fuck_?" I whimper, cowering as another bomb goes off somewhere nearby. I smell acrid piss, and I pray it's not mine. "Who the  _fuck_..."

"A radical anti-treaty hardliner," Barkat growls as my men and his aide move in to look at his shoulder. "Probably a neo-Kahanist pain in my rear. Leave it, I'll get to the hospital when my city's secure." It's a sign of how scared we all are that the Palestinians don't object to the words  _my city_.

"Sir, you're bleeding heavily," the Israeli aide says, nearly shouting over the sounds of panicked people. It's true, Barkat's shirt is already stained and it's spreading fast.

"Here," one of the younger men who came with the Hamas team says, taking off his keffiyeh. "Use this to tie it off, it's good strong fabric."

"...thanks," Barkat says after a moment, taking the cloth and handing it to his aide. "Why?"

The kid shrugs as Vinnie hisses into my ear that we need to move, now, I get five more seconds and then we need to be _in motion god damn it_. "Why save one of us from one of yours?"

"Tie it as we move," Barkat orders his aide, and the kid stumbles along as the Secret Service and Barkat's remaining bodyguard hustle us along, one of them staying behind with a Secret Service guy to handle the fanatic. "I visited a school yesterday, for politics. I remembered a time I was in a school that was hit by a rocket from Gaza." He tries to shrug, and grimaces in pain. "I am tired of seeing dead children. This peace is worth it. For the children of tomorrow."

The Hamas guy doesn't say anything, just nods as we're hustled along. I can see US military APCs down the road as we turn into a larger avenue, though it's not big enough for them to just roll down, and the soldiers are spilling out, taking positions to advance. 200 meters and we're safe. Or as safe as you can get in a Bradley.

"Stay close and move fa--" Vinnie gets out, and then the world goes white.

I'm blasted sideways by some inhumanly powerful impact, my hearing gone in an earth-shattering  _thoom_  as bits of sand and rock and sheer compressed air hit me, knocking me and the rest of the group sideways. The lucky ones, including me, fetch up against another person.

"VINNIE!" I shout, but I can't hear my own voice, just a tinny ringing. The air's filled with choking clouds of dust and soot as I cough spasmodically on the reek of burning oil and plastic, trying to stand on pure instinct. Barkat's a scant 10 feet away, clambering to his feet as across the avenue the charred remains of a car smoke, flames licking about the chassis. Some of the others are moving, too; Vinnie stirs under me as I roll off of him to rise, and I can see the Hamas aide who gave Barkat his keffiyeh pulling himself up on the bumper of a car, its alarm lights flashing pointlessly. There are people down; Abbas's aide, not moving, a foul mix of blood and shit spilling from his guts across the cobblestones, Agent Clay, a chunk of metal sticking out of her leg as she twitches spasmodically, a slice visible on the side of her head, the Israeli aide, mouth open wide and thrashing, the side of his face horrifically burned, clutching a mangled arm in an extended scream that barely registers in my wrecked hearing. Barkat makes his feet, coughing as a foul-smelling cloud of smoke wafts across our group...

The woman steps out around the burning car, bullpup rifle raised. Barkat freezes, about to reach down to his wounded aide; she's wearing a black veil and full-body cloak, but the rifle’s sleek, military, new and downright shiny. She says something I can't hear, and Barkat stumbles back. I force myself up, no plan in mind other than  _peace treaty, peace treaty_ , but the Hamas aide is faster.

All I hear is the faint words  _Allahu akbar!_  and see the motion as the aide leaps in front of Barkat, the rifle round plowing into his chest as he falls in front of Barkat, collapsing onto the Israeli leader's legs and knocking him off his feet. The Hamas kid spasms, choking on air as his blood pours out of the hole--it must've hit his aorta or something, I realize, the world seemingly in slow motion as the assassin's shocked gaze hardens, her eyes narrowing with deadly purpose, and she zeroes in again on Barkat, who tries to roll...

Vinnie is a lot faster on the recovery than me. He throws himself past me without even getting up, just barely recovering his gun from where it fell and squeezing off a shot. The assassin stumbles back, red blossoming at the center of her chest in a deadly rose, her rifle spraying on auto off to the side, bullets ricocheting into the neighboring buildings, and I stumble back, falling backwards as I trip on something, a curb or a body maybe. Vinnie's second shot hits her in the shoulder, spinning her halfway around and sending the rifle clattering to the ground as the assassin collapses onto the burning remains of the bombed-out car, apparently dead.

My ass hits the ground, my head cracks against a stone wall, and everything goes black.

***

I wake up in motion.

“Hey, I have movement!” someone yells. “Open eyes, he’s awake!”

“Wh’ the f’ck…” I mutter, forcing myself up. “Clay! Agent Clay! And Vinnie!”

“Easy, sir!” someone calls, grabbing me by the back. The stretcher I’m on sways wildly as people adjust their grips

“Stay with me, baby,” I hear Annie sob. “Come on, Viv, please wake up!”

“The fuck is going on?” I yell. Vinnie trots up in my peripheral vision, and I turn, then suck in a breath as I see Annie crying as she half-runs alongside the comatose Agent Clay, who’s surrounded by doctors on a stretcher of her own.

“An attack on the evacuation,” Vinnie tells me. “Two dead. Two in critical condition. Shooter’s dead. Barkat said she insulted him in Hebrew; it looks like this was an inside job. The gunfire stopped something like half an hour ago; looks like the fighting’s over. Rice! With Clay and Ms. Zinovieva! Collins, perimeter watch on the hotel! Nobody gets in or out, I want every fucking exit locked down! Mr. President, you hit your head, doesn’t look too bad but the doctors want to look you over.”

“What the  _fuck_?” I complain. “Hey! Doctors! Make sure Annie’s girlfriend makes it, or you’re all fired! I’ll give you ten grand apiece if she makes it, I’ve only got like a hundred grand on me because I only brought an emergency debit card!” A pair of airplanes, USN Hornets by the looks of them, scream by a few thousand feet overhead. Everything’s gone to shit.

“Get him into the hotel,” Vinnie snarls. “Odauje! I need the goddamn building confirmed clear  _right fucking now_ , we’ve got to move the President in!”

“Barkat,” I demand. “Where’s Barkat? Where’re the negotiators?”

“Palestinian VIPs are under armed guard, and we’re waiting for transport to get them and you to the  _Evans_.” Last year I ordered Mattis to re-name the USS  _Stennis_  after Ernest Evans, and the _Carl Vinson_  to the _Dorie Miller_. I also ordered a nuclear supercarrier posted off the Palestinian coast 24/7; you know, just in case. “Barkat’s safe, he’s organizing a press conference. Last thing I heard him say was telling Secretary Walker that he had to go salvage the peace deal and stop a coup.”

“The  _fuck_? This was a fucking  _coup_?”

“Looks like. Annie! Medevac’s on its way, they just scrambled a couple of V-22s, those’ll have to do!”

“Where the fuck are my people? Fatima! Secretary Walker!”

“I’m here,” Fatima says, coming up on my other side. “Oh, Allah be praised, you’re alright. Secretary Walker’s coordinating our response--she left with Barkat and two Secret Service agents.”

“Mr. President, I need you to look straight ahead,” a doctor instructs me. I comply, swearing profusely about the assassins’ parents.

“Fatima, stay with him,” Vinnie orders. “In the room, too. Don’t let him out of your sight, I’ll have guards on the doors and we’ve got medevac and a drone inbound.”

“Viv, breathe for me,” Annie begs. “Keep breathing, I’m never letting you go!”

“Fuck this goddamn stretcher shit!” I cuss as the doctor lets go of my chin, and haul myself out of the stupid thing as several medical people shout in surprise. “I can fucking walk! No blurry vision, I’m not concussed, I’m fine!” Something warm and wet trickles down the back of my neck; oh, that’s blood, oozing from the back of my head. My head spins, blood rushing out after an indeterminate amount of time on my back.

“ _Sit the fuck back down_!” Vinnie roars, and I stumble back, sitting heavily on the stretcher as the medics swear. “Building’s clear, get his ass inside!” He waves the medics on, and I’m strapped down and in motion before I can blink, Fatima holding my hand as a doctor starts asking me questions off of a concussion test.

Fuck, this whole thing went to Hell in a handbasket.

***

When the doctors leave, I demand that we turn the TV on. Fatima protests, but complies after I drink half a bottle of water at her insistence.

I take the remote and flick through the channels until I see something interesting. Barkat’s wrangled a TV crew and a building, and he and Secretary Walker are doing an impromptu press conference.

I turn the volume way up. This is gonna be interesting.

“ _...the shooter told me, in Hebrew, ‘Prime Minister Bennett says hello’,_ ” Barkat says in English, and my blood runs cold. “ _This treasonous attack upon a ceremony of peace, at the very heart of the holiest city on Earth, was part of a coup planned by Naftali Bennett to undermine my administration!_ ”

“ _The United States of America condemns this attempt by violent extremists to sabotage the peace deal,_ ” Secretary Walker speaks up. Barkat nods, teeth grinding.

“ _You want to_ fuck _with me, Naftali?_ ” Barkat snarls into the camera. “ _I will fuck with you right back! I’ve ordered the IDF to take you into custody; the traitors who you incited to attack me will be swept from the face of the Earth, and then I’m going to have you tried for treason and thrown in the darkest fucking hole I can find! You know what, you little snake? A fucking Palestinian, a goddamn Hamas boy who probably took his ski mask off five minutes before the ceremony, he saved my life from that assassin. What the Hell has become of Jewish solidarity? When a goddamn Hamas terrorist is willing to save me, a Jew, from a_ Jewish _assassin? Hell, that Palestinian didn’t just save me, he jumped in front of the bullet. I don’t know his name, I’ll have to ask the Hamas delegates, but Naftali, I’m going to give that Palestinian a medal just to spite you, you worthless, self-hating Jew, you greasy little sack of shit! What the Hell has become of our people, that IDF officers of all people are willing to commit treason to avoid peace with Palestine? אלוהים יעזור לי, כולכם מטורפים!_ ” He pants for breath, red-faced with rage.

“ _Uh, just to add, President Trump is alive and in good condition,_ ” Walker says. She’s come a long way from driving buses. “ _The Hamas and Fatah delegates are under armed guard and being prepared for transport to a secure location; we’re not letting this peace deal fail._ ”

“ _Sir_!” one of Barkat’s aides yells, the microphone picking it up, and Barkat turns, the camera tracking with him. The aide leans in to whisper in the irate Israeli leader’s ear, and Barkat snaps something back in Hebrew.

“ _I have just received word that Naftali Bennett has been apprehended while attempting to flee Israel,_ ” Barkat says to the camera. “ _Rest assured, this treasonous vermin will see justice for his crimes and be subjected to the harshest punishment that the law allows._ ”

The TV clicks off as the woman interviewing Barkat practically explodes with questions. In the faint light filtering through the curtains, I see Fatima turn towards me with wide eyes.

“They nearly murdered you,” she whispers, clutching me in a half-hug, squeezing tight enough to hurt. I don’t object. It’s a good pain. I  _need_  it.

“Yeah,” I rasp. My voice is cracked and unsteady. “I nearly died.”  _Again_  doesn’t make it past my lips, but it hangs in the air over us anyway. I find myself moving, reaching for her, pulling her close, and Fatima reaches her other arm around me, both of us breathing hard as I shudder into her shoulder.

“You’re  _alive_ ,” she whispers. “You’re alive, Mr. President…”

“Call me Ian,” I rasp.

“Sir?”

“Fuck this President shit. Call me Ian.”

“...alright, Ian.” She gives me a little squeeze. Part of my brain offhandedly notes that Fatima gives good hugs as I breathe in the smell of her citrus shampoo with each desperate inhale. “You’re alive. You’re  _safe_.”

“Safe,” I repeat dully. Her hand slips up to my neck. I turn my face into her neck. “Safe,” I murmur into her. I’m still shaking like a leaf as she starts rocking back and forth, her pounding heartbeat as unsteady as my own as it thrums in my ears.

I don’t know why I pull off her hijab. It just happens in an instant, and she lets out a startled breath. I realize what I did and pull back, wide-eyed and starting to apologize. “Fatima, I…”

She silences me with a finger to my lips, her hair falling around her face and her pupils wide and dark. “ _Sshhh_.” Then her hands are at my collar. Our breath comes in identical hurried, sharp gasps, like we’re never going to get enough oxygen again. I fumble with the clasp of her cape as she tugs off my tie, then we alternate as she pulls my jacket and shirt off and I tug at her blouse. I unclasp her bra with one arm as she pulls my undershirt over my head and off the other, and it goes from there with me pulling her close by her thick midsection as she grabs my head and pulls me into a bruising kiss.

If Vladimir Putin is secretly filming us, it’s not going to make a great porno. I’ve never done this before in my life. She’s about five-four and nearly a hundred kilos, I’m in the body of a degenerate septuagenarian with a shriveled micropenis.

It’s hot and sweaty and messy and desperate in the unique way that only two people glad to be alive having sex with each other soon after the world nearly ended thanks to an asshole ultranationalist can be. I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m pretty sure Fatima is only a little more experienced, I’ve still got blood and dirt and oil on me and by the time we’re done her hair is rumpled and tangled and sticky with sweat and dirt and oil and there’s a bit of what I think is oil on her cheek, but it’s still damn near transcendent.

Afterwards, we slump back on the bed, breathing deep and hard and slow as we sink into the pillows. “Wow,” she whispers after what feels like hours.

“Yeah,” I reply, wide-eyed as I stare at the ceiling. “Never done that before.”

“First time for everything,” she manages with a hint of humor.

“Yeah,” I admit with a bit of a chuckle, turning my head to see her white teeth flash in the darkness as she smiles. “Guess so.”

We lie there for a little while in the silence. It gets a little awkward after a bit.

“You’re on contraceptives, right?” I ask. Just in case. Neither of us brought protection.

“Yes. I’ll get a morning-after pill just in case. I got off my period only a couple of days ago, though, so it’s probably fine.”

“Fair enough.” Still, I feel a little bit embarrassed. I should’ve remembered a condom.

We lie in near-silence for a little longer. This time, Fatima breaks it.

“So...we should shower,” she says, making no move to get up or pick up her discarded clothes.

“Yeah,” I admit. After a moment I sigh and force myself to sit up. “You want the first or second?”

“You can go first, Mr. Pres--Ian.”

“Fair enough.” I lick my lips. “Mr. President or Comrade Donnie is better in public. Just so, you know. It’s all clear.”

“Don’t worry, Annie briefed me.”

“Oh.” I scratch the back of Trump’s head as I rise. “So. Uh. Thanks? I guess that’s what I should say?”

She shrugs. “I think we both needed that.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “We did. Um. I don’t know how to handle this going forward…”

She shrugs again. “We’ll figure something out. It could be a one-time thing, or not. There’s plenty of time.”

“I mean, we gotta get my head checked out again, in a hospital instead of by a field medic this time. And we gotta get back Stateside and get the treaty properly signed. But yeah. Plenty of time on Air Force One.”

And on that note, I grab some clean-ish clothes from my luggage and head for the shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. That happened. 
> 
> Major Shamir is presented here as a student of the infamous Bnei David pre-military yeshiva, a school in the illegal Eli settlement notorious for the "Jews for Hitler" rabbis who were caught on tape praising Hitler a few months ago: https://www.timesofisrael.com/embracing-racism-rabbis-at-pre-army-yeshiva-laud-hitler-urge-enslaving-arabs/ Shamir is so nuts that even Bennett, himself a hardline nationalist, was creeped out by him in the last chapter, and Shamir's cabal inside the military couldn't even last an HOUR against the rest of the IDF in the area even after Bennett arranged for Shamir and his men to all be present on guard duty at the signing ceremony. People like this do exist, but thankfully most Israelis are more like Barkat. 
> 
> Barkat's line in Hebrew is supposed to translate to "God help me, you're all insane!", but it might've gotten out of order due to the copy-paste.


	4. Chapter 4: MAGA Socialism!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comrade Donnie recovers from the Israeli coup attempt, and loses his temper at Faux News.

_USS_ Ernest E. Evans  _(formerly_ John C. Stennis _), off the coast of Gaza. April 1st, 2018._  
  
“Annie,” Vinnie murmurs, nudging my admin as Agent Clay stirs on the bed. Annie hasn’t moved from the Secret Service agent’s side for a whole day, and she’s currently passed out in the chair next to the infirmary bed. “Annie, she’s waking up.”   
  
“ _Ugghhhh_ …” Clay groans, twitching slightly. Vinnie shakes Annie gently, and she wakes with a start.   
  
“Whu--”   
  
“Clay’s waking up,” I tell her. She leans forward urgently, one hand going to Clay’s face as the burly woman’s eyes slowly open in response to the stimulus.   
  
“Hey, babe,” Clay manages with a weak grin. “Who hit me with a bus?” Her voice is weak, but she’s there.   
  
“Don’t,” Annie chokes. “Please, Viv, just don’t.”   
  
“Car bomb,” I explain. “Two dead. Abbas’s aide got killed instantly, Mashal’s jumped in front of a bullet meant for Barkat. Barkat’s assistant was maimed in the blast, he’s in the hospital but stable.”   
  
“Who was it? Hamas? Hezbollah?”   
  
“IDF,” Vinnie growls. “Naftali Bennett was working with a bunch of IDF turncoats to launch a coup because the jackass here threatened to have him murdered.”   
  
“He was threatening a coup before I threatened to have him killed,” I point out. “I think I was justified.”   
  
“Justified or not, this is how it played out. You did what you thought was right, kid, and somebody you give a shit about got hurt.”   
  
I don’t have an answer for that. Clay shrugs, still laying down.   
  
“Hey. At least it wasn’t a hundred Palestinian kids. And I lived, right?”   
  
“ _Babe_ ,” Annie hisses.   
  
“Yeah, and you’re gonna keep on living. On vacation. Paid vacation. For however goddamn long it takes to get better.” I shake my head as she starts to object. “I’ve made my decision, I’m the President of the fucking United States of America, I can do that. You’re off duty. Vinnie agrees. Besides, it’s not like you’re walking on that leg anytime soon, you had your femur split by a chunk of car and one of those drips is morphine.”   
  
“Oh, that’s what that is…” Clay mutters. “Where are we?”   
  
“USS  _Evans_. We’re going to sign the treaty on board then head for Italy, Prime Minister Oliver just took office but he’s cooperating so far.” The fact that the TV host actually _accepted the position_  he only nominated himself for in jest is crazy enough, but that he’s the most popular Italian leader in decades less than a month into his term really takes the cake. We’ll see how long he lasts; he already tried to call for new elections, but the party system there is still in chaos so that might not have been the best idea.   
  
“Israel and Palestine?”   
  
“Israel’s paralyzed,” Fatima says, slipping in the door behind me. We manage to stand about a foot apart without shooting too many awkward looks at each other. “There are mass protests sweeping the entire country--about half the protesters seem to support Barkat and the treaty, half against. Some of the settlements are threatening to go out in suicidal attacks on the Palestinian neighborhoods around them to protest being handed over to Palestinian government and the clause mandating the repeal of the Jewish exceptionalism clause of the Israeli basic law. Barkat’s too busy purging the IDF and Mossad of coup sympathizers to deal with it so we’re shouldering the burden; Secretary Walker’s on a C-32 headed back to the US for security purposes, but she and her staff are coordinating a diplomatic response. Meanwhile, there was a riot in Palestine when Hamas told the hardest-line hardliners to settle down and play Ia--President Trump’s game.”   
  
“I called Mattis last night, told him to get more boots on the ground to deal with the situation,” I add. “Officially they’re advisors helping Israel and Palestine to negotiate a delicate situation. Unofficially, they’re there to end any fight that might break out.”   
  
“Right. Speaking of fights, Ia--Mr. President, there was a clash between pro-treaty and anti-treaty protesters, thirty-six injured. Also, people are starting to realize that the treaty wasn’t actually signed.”   
  
“Get me Barkat, the Palestinians, and Walker ASAP. I want to sign the treaty, on the ship if I have to, and get justification to intervene if needed  _yesterday_.”   
  
“Got it.”   
  
“Thanks, Fatima, you’re the best.” I flush as my brain catches up to my mouth. “Uh, you know what I mean.”   
  
She blushes and gives me a gentle smile and a hesitant pat on the bicep. “Don’t worry. I understood.”   
  
“...that’s new,” Clay comments as Fatima leaves.   
  
“They fucked yesterday before they were airlifted out here,” Annie says. “Adrenaline’s a hell of a drug.”   
  
“Dude!” I complain. “Did I tell everybody that I walked in on you and Clay here  _fucking on my desk_?”   
  
She scoffs. “I think I’m owed a little fucking with you, sir.”   
  
“Then throw some pudding at my head or something, don’t…”   
  
“OK,” Vinnie growls. “Annie, he’s a little shell-shocked, God knows I am, go easy on the kid. He saw people die in front of him, was nearly killed for the third time in a year, and almost got blown up. He’s having a rough couple of days just like you and I are, so lay off. Clay, if I see you report for duty anytime in the next three months I’m personally canning your ass and you can go work as a rent-a-cop or something. Get healthy fast, I’m pulling for you. Mr. President, walk with me?”   
  
“Sure, man.” I shake my head with a grimace. “Sorry, Annie, Agent Clay. This was supposed to be a nice ceremony and then some champagne and crackers.”   
  
“Eh,” Clay rasps. “Shit happens.” She tips her head at Annie. “C’mon, babe.”   
  
My admin grimaces but acquiesces. “Damn it, you’re right, honey. Mr. President, I’m sorry for spreading information about personal stuff you’re not fully comfortable about without your permission.”   
  
“No need.” I’m already halfway to the door. “Take care of your woman, get her back to full health, and we’re even.”   
  
***  
  
“So,” Vinnie says, the two of us standing a few feet from the edge of  _Evans_ ’s flight deck, the nearest sailors and guards a good twenty feet away. “Talk me through how you’re feeling. Be honest.”   
  
I snort. “Shouldn’t  _you_  be the one who’s fucked up? You killed somebody today.”   
  
“And I’ll be seeing a therapist. But, kid--I’m thirty-two, I’ve got a daughter who’s just starting to talk, I got shot at in Afghanistan when I was in the Marines, I’ve seen shit like this before.  _You_  just got nearly assassinated for the third time in less than a year, you almost got blown up by a car bomb, and you saw two people die in front of you. And you’re  _twenty_ -two.”   
  
“So?”   
  
“So you don’t have experience dealing with post-traumatic stress.” Vinnie scowls at the horizon, looking out towards the Israeli-Palestinian coast. American flags wave from destroyers as they patrol the Gaza perimeter, boats full of food, fuel, and construction machinery sailing through unmolested. “Talk it out, kid. I’m listening.”   
  
I work my jaw. Spit over the side into the wind, then wipe it off my face with my sleeve, feeling like an idiot. Vinnie waits, quietly.   
  
“What’s the fucking  _point_?” I bite out. “Bunch of fucking people dead,  _again_ , and for what? Trying to turn a white-people democracy into a bog-standard fascist regime? Some fucking ambitious rat bastard’s plans to drive a shitload more people out of their homes? It’s been seventy fucking years since the  _Nakba_ , Vinnie. Seventy fucking years of these fucking people murdering each other over and over and fucking over. Seventy years of Israel shooting civilians, seventy years of glorified mortars being shot at schools, what the fuck is it all for? I had to threaten to  _nuke_  these motherfuckers to get them to the table, and even  _then_  a bunch of nuts were so  _fucking_  addicted to killing people for dumb fucking reasons that they shot up a fucking holy site and car-bombed a civilian road! Fuck this shit, man! Fuck ‘em all! Let ‘em kill each other, let ‘em all drown in their own fucking blood, I’ll nuke the fucking rubble down to the bedrock and leave nothing but glass that glows in the fucking dark! We’re supposed to be  _beyond_  this shit, Vinnie. But it keeps fucking happening. Again and again and fucking again, good people die and pond scum like Bennett and Cassaleggio run away to Moscow to hide in Putin’s guest house! Now there’s two more dead Palestinians, a bunch of dead Israelis, what’s it all  _for_?”   
  
“From what it looks like,  _not_  having more pointless death in the future,” Vinnie notes. “Barkat’s killing mad, Mr. President, Walker had to talk him  _down_  from pressing for the death penalty against Bennett because the Middle East desk said that could destroy the entire Israeli political system and leave free nukes floating around a nexus of instability. He’s backing this peace deal to the  _hilt_ , the IDF won’t be bombing any civilian neighborhoods for a long time. With the Palestinians cooperating, that means no pointless civilian deaths, or at least a massive reduction.” He waves to a flunky, who trots up, hands him a coffee, and makes a hasty exit. Vinnie takes a sip, hums, and lowers the cup. “It sucks, yeah. Shitty world we live in. But every little bit counts. If somebody’s gotta die so five more live...a lot of people would call that a win.”   
  
“I’m fucking tired of the fucking dead people, Vinnie.”   
  
“Yeah, well, it turns out that Barkat and the Palestinians are pretty fucking tired of that shit, too,” my henchman notes. “We’re getting there, Mr. President. Bit by bit.” He sips his coffee again. “So, you and Fatima?”   
  
I snort at the pathetic joke that is me and my love life. “Yeah. She’s...really nice. I’ve got no idea...I needed somebody. It just sort of went from there.”   
  
“Happens to the best of us.” Vinnie takes another sip of coffee. “I got Liz. You got nobody, found somebody. Nothing wrong with that.”   
  
“The power dynamics, though--”   
  
“Mr. President, you barely passed a goddamn concussion test and you’re in the middle of a post-traumatic situation. Besides, _I know you_. You never even ask for a kiss from your celebrity crush. Didn’t even when you and her were too drunk to see and she was hugging you that time you broke out the vodka in that shack with her and Berlanti.”   
  
“But the implied power dynamic--”   
  
“Shut the fuck up and stop looking for ways to kick yourself in the balls, kid.” He shakes his head with a grimace. “I understand your concern, I get the idea behind it, but you’re a traumatized college student with multiple neurological disorders and developmental disorders who’d been in a car bombing and was nearly assassinated an hour before. Fatima had every bit of the power there  _and she knows it_. She came to me worried that she’d pressured you.” Vinnie drains his cup with a shake of his head. “ _Fuck_  me. I’m not paid enough for this.”   
  
“I gave you ten million dollars and a mansion, I’m paying for your daughter’s education and I’m giving you ten thousand a month of Saudi blood money, post-tax. How the fuck are you not paid enough?”   
  
“...fair point,” he allows, “but I’m still not a fucking shrink for your entire shadow cabinet. That said--you gonna be stable for the next few days?”   
  
I deflate, turning back to the sea. “I guess, man. Fuck this noise, all of it. What’s the schedule like for the next few days?”   
  
“Well, I’ve been helping with the scheduling, so far we’re looking at having the treaty signing tonight once things’ve settled down a bit. After that, a stop in Tunisia so you can praise their democracy and urge for more reform, Spain because you wanted genuine Spanish paella, then we’re headed home.”   
  
“Tunisia?”   
  
“Yeah, you said the day before yesterday you wanted to schedule that last-minute.”   
  
“Fuck, really?” I don’t even  _remember_  that! “Jesus.”   
  
“It’s alright, sir. After what you just went through, a few memory issues are normal.”   
  
“Don’t bullshit me, Vinnie.”   
  
“I’m not.” He spits, and it sails over the side in a gentle arc, the breeze letting up almost as if it bent to his will. Motherfucker’s manlier than I am without even trying. “Your brain’s focused on the important shit. Surviving. Not getting killed by an insane ultranationalist. You know, the usual for you.”   
  
“Ha, ha.”   
  
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You had Nazis try to assassinate you.  _Twice_.”   
  
“...OK, point.”   
  
“So, my advice is, get the treaty signed, take a few days off, and don’t break out the nukes.”   
  
“I wasn’t planning--”   
  
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You have to deal with three men who probably still hate each other and are only playing ball because they fear you more.”   
  
“...OK, point, nukes would be tempting after a while.”   
  
“Yeah. So keep a lid on it.”   
  
“Will do,” I promise him. We stand in silence for a minute. My vision’s going blurry, and I sniffle, feeling a tear on my cheek. “Hey, Vinnie...mind if I hug you, man?”   
  
He wraps one arm around me instantly. “Whatever you gotta do, Mr. President. Whatever you gotta do.” His voice cracks, too. Somehow, the knowledge that he’s not doing great either is comforting to me.   
  
***  
  
The sun’s dipping in the sky when Barkat, Mashal, and Mahmud Abbas are all flown out. Separate helicopters. Just in case.   
  
“Evening,” I greet them. No bluster and bullshit. I’m not sure how much of that I can manage. “Barkat, Mashal, do you have shit under control yet?”   
  
“Some radical elements who refused to comply with the terms of the treaty have been eliminated,” Mashal says with the cold certainty of a former guerilla fighter. “That ought to send a message to anyone foolish enough to  _allaenat mae_  the best deal we’ve ever been handed.”   
  
“I’ve got loyal IDF and Mossad men purging the traitors as we speak,” Barkat growls, dark bags under his bloodshot eyes. “One of the coup conspirators was captured, and foiled in a suicide attempt, he’s being pumped for intelligence on the plot. An IDF major, if you can believe that--he keeps ranting about how Jews are ‘the master race’ and how he wants to enslave Muslims and Christians. Oh, and he’s a big Hitler fan.”   
  
I do a double-take. “What the fuck?”   
  
Barkat’s growl barely sounds human. “There’s a yeshiva in one of the settlements--”   
  
“ _Illegal colonies_ …” Mashal starts, but I put a palm up to his face and Barkat nods with a roll of his eyes.  
  
“Yes, yes, that. Anyway, this school is run by the hardest of hardliners, they’re so insane that  _Lieberman’s_  been trying to shut them down for years. Apparently the Major was a student there.”   
  
“Yeah, but  _Adolf fucking Hitler_?”   
  
“I had the rabbis at that yeshiva arrested on general principle as soon as I found that Major Shamir used to be a student there. One of the students slipped my men a recording showing the rabbis praising Hitler. The idea appears to be that the master-race madness and genocide were good things but aimed at the wrong people.”   
  
I’m stunned into silence for a full minute, no sound but the waves against the ship, the roar of nearby jets and helicopters, and the wind ruffling Trump’s toupee. Mashal and Abbas are gaping; even a fucking Hamas official can’t wrap his head around that.   
  
“...these are rabbis, right?” I manage. “Jews?”   
  
Barkat shrugs. “I don’t pretend to understand it, either.”   
  
“Right, but  _Hitler_?” I shake my head. “I mean,  _my_  country’s got a neo-Nazi problem, but you’d think that Israel of all places would be spared that...hey, what’s worse than cancer? I need a word to describe Nazis that's sufficiently disgusting and horrible.”   
  
“...Ebola?” Abbas suggests.   
  
“Hey, that’s actually a good point.” I shake my head. “Right, we’ve wasted enough fucking time on this insanity. You guys ready to get this thing signed?”   
  
Mashal and Barkat nod. Abbas decides to make a speech of it. “I am ready to make history, Mr. President.”   
  
“Awesome.” I nod to Vinnie, who waves the photographer into place and passes me the pen (a US-made gel pen, as stipulated by one of the later days of negotiations so as to not offend any of the negotiators) and the treaty. We line up; Abbas goes first, as agreed after hours of soul-deadening talks that I had to fucking call in for, then passes it off to Barkat with a grin and a shake for the camera; Barkat signs, passes it to Mashal with a shake and a polite smile; the Hamass guy signs, passes it off to me, and I sign with Trump’s pathetic little baby hands, then sweep all three men into a sort of awkward hug for the camera, my actually decently long arms (Trump was a tall man, and since I inherited his body I have ‘em now) around their necks. All three flinch slightly at the contact, but fuck it. I’m done with other people.   
  
“I’ll be back in a few days,” I say as the camera people start to pack up. “For the funeral of that guy who saved Barkat--”   
  
“Muhammad ibn Murad al-Rafahi” Barkat says. “That was his name. His older brother Farouk was killed in the Gaza war in 2014, probably while in civilian disguise though I couldn’t confirm that. His father died of a drug overdose after succumbing to depression three years after losing his job due to the beginning of the blockade.” Mashal and Abbas look surprised. Barkat has the bloodshot death glare of a man barely clinging to sanity after a near-death experience and an all-nighter.   
  
“...thanks. You found that out fast.”   
  
Barkat gives me a glare that has me openly flinching. “That man took a bullet for me,  _died_  for me, when he had every reason to hate me and everyone from my party, government, and nation,” he snarls through clenched teeth, flecks of spittle dotting his lips. “I  _owe_  him knowing his name, I  _owe_  him knowing who he was, I  _owe_  him a good funeral, you understand me?”   
  
I nod, mouth dry. “Yeah. Yeah, I get it.”   
  
“Good.” Barkat hooks his thumbs into his pants pockets and looks away. “I didn’t think a man who ran track with bone spurs in his heels would understand.”   
  
I snort at that. “Believe me. That piece of shit is fucking dead.”   
  
I get some weird looks for that, but given that we were all nearly assassinated yesterday, the Israelis and Palestinians let it pass.   
  
***  
  
 _April 3rd._  
  
Fatima straightens my tie, something that should not be as awkward as it is. I’m fighting to suppress a blush and I’m pretty sure she is too, though it’s hard to see on her coppery skin; but we are professional, damn it, and I say nothing, just as she stops herself before she can lean in. “There we go,” Fatima says after a moment. “You look almost Presidential, I--Mr. President.”   
  
“Thanks.” I pat her awkwardly on the arm just below the shoulder. “You’re the best, Fatima.”   
  
Now she blushes, and I feel my own cheeks burn a moment later. “Uh, thank you, Mr. President.” Behind me, Vinnie sighs quietly. A minion by the door waves to me and gives a thumbs-up.   
  
“OK,” I say, pulling back. “We’re ready.”   
  
“Go get ‘em, Donnie,” Vinnie says, then falls in behind me like a burly shadow.   
  
Mattis and Harward the latter looking like he’s been drinking recently, are flanking the podium; Mattis, of course, is unflappable. I’d have State as well as Defense here, but Secretary Walker’s spending two weeks in Israel trying to help stop a potentially nuclear war.   
  
I stand and wait for a full five minutes before the Secret Service and my minions get the press quieted. Finally, I nod and lean into the microphone.   
  
“So, that happened.”   
  
A nervous chuckle permeates the room like an oil slick in the air.   
  
“What’s so fucking funny?” I snap. “Two good men are dead and another’s never gonna use his hands again. I nearly died three days ago,  _again_. A Hitler-loving psychopath tried to kill the Israeli Prime Minister because Barkat  _didn’t want to kill millions of people_. None of this is fucking funny anymore. This isn’t, ha ha, Israel and Palestine keep fucking each other up, el-oh-el what a bunch of crazy foreigners--not that mass civilian casualties were ever funny to anybody but completely jaded assholes. This has jumped the fucking shark, after already jumping the fucking shark years ago. Israel is a sick parody of itself, for crying out loud; according to Barkat and the CIA agents he let me send to interrogate the captured conspirator, the IDF goon who was leading the coup forces, anyway, that sick bastard who Barkat’s guys caught is a fucking Hitler fanboy. A literal, actual fucking Jewish Nazi who unironically believes that Hitler was a good guy but just had the wrong master race. What the fucking fuck is wrong with this world? You’d think that fucking Jews of all people would recognize that ethnic cleansing and genocide are wrong and mass-murdering dictators are bad, right? I mean, fucking seriously, people, this is all fucking nuts! I nearly got murdered for the third time in less than a year, what the fuck is up with that? How the fuck am I still President? How the fuck is there still a United States of America??? What the  _fuck_?”   
  
I shake my head with a disgusted grimace. “It’s all fucked up. But at least now we’ve got a chance. The treaty, as you’ve probably seen if you watch TV, was signed. By me, Barkat, Hamas leader Mashal, and Fatah leader Abbas. So, this is actually happening. Peace in the Levant, undercutting the biggest source of recruits for violent radicals in one move. All because the leader of Israel and the leaders of the Palestinian factions got fucking tired of all the pointless carnage. Well, and I threatened to glass them with ICBMs if they didn’t get their shit together, but whatever, it took balls for those men to sit down and talk.   
  
“It’s just a fucking shame that some fucking assholes were so fucking obsessed with their lust for lebensraum and ethnic cleansing that they tried to fucking coup Barkat. And now two good men are dead, another’s fucked up for life, one of my best bodyguards is in traction and her girlfriend’s going spare, I’m pretty sure I’m getting fucking PTSD at this point, and a bunch of dumb bastards who thought that killing their own Prime Minister was better than living in peace got themselves killed, too.   
  
“It’s all a fucking joke. A sick, unfunny fucking joke cooked up by a demented psychopath. This fucking world is fucking nuts.” I shake my head again, vision blurring. “What’s the fucking POINT?” I shout it, slamming my fist into the lectern. “ _WHAT’S THE FUCKING **POINT**_? MORE FUCKING BLOOD AND PAIN FOR FUCKING NOTHING! FUCK YOU ALL! YOU DON’T FUCKING DESERVE PEACE! YOU DUMB FUCKING SONS OF BITCHES, WHY DON’T YOU JUST KILL EACH OTHER? KILL EACH OTHER AND LET YOUR KIDS GROW UP WITHOUT YOUR HATE!” I’m sobbing, vision blurred into formless masses as I shudder on my feet, clutching the lectern. “Fuck you all! Fuck you all, fuck you all, burn in fucking hell all you hateful sacks of fucking shit.” I pound the lectern again with my fist, sniffling as I wipe my other arm over my eyes; I feel more than hear someone, maybe two someones, step up behind me; Mattis and Vinnie, probably, ready to wrestle me away if need be. “Fuck this. Fuck whatever so-called moderation I even bothered to pretend to have before. I’m giving the Presidential Medal of Freedom to Barkat, Mashal, and Abbas. And if his family’ll have it, I’ll give one to the family of Muhammad ibn Murad al-Rafahi. The man who saved Nir Barkat from an IDF renegade assassin. I’ll be there for the funeral and I’ll help Barkat pay for it. And I’ll see if I can’t get Congress to recognize that guy, too. He died a fucking hero.   
  
“The USA stands behind this peace treaty, as does the full power of our military. Anyone who gets funny ideas about ethnic cleansing or lebensraum or any of that shit will be met with fire and fury, by which I mean nukes. Lots of fucking nukes. But it shouldn’t come to that because the guys in charge now know right from wrong. They’re fucking scum just like me but they know right from wrong, and that’s gotta be enough, or we’re all fucking doomed.   
  
“Any goddamn questions?”   
  
The press corps is dead silent, so much so you could hear a mouse fart. Finally, the CNN lady clears her throat.   
  
“Um, Mr. President--have you confirmed who was responsible for the attack?”   
  
“Naftali Bennett, an Israeli legislator, got caught trying to flee the country after an assassin implicated him and failed to kill Barkat to clean up the evidence. He’s in IDF custody, Prime Minister Barkat wants to try the oily sack of shit for treason.” I don’t mention that I probably provoked Bennett by threatening to murder him, but honestly it doesn’t even really come into my mind. “The man who led the attack is Eli Shamir, an IDF officer who believes in Jewish racial supremacy and told CIA interrogators that Barkat let me send in that he wants to kill all Palestinians. Believes they’re ‘genetically inferior’. Last I checked Barkat was going for life in prison for Bennett and the death penalty for Shamir, we’ll see how that goes. Bennett’s apparently blaming Shamir and claims he took comments made by Bennett out of context, but since Bennett tried to flee for Moscow the moment Barkat was confirmed alive, yeah, that’s bullshit.”   
  
“So it  _was_  an inside job?”   
  
“As Mr. Barkat’s repeatedly reminded me, more of a renegade splinter faction with the Israeli government, one without the backing of the Israeli people or something like that. Same fucking difference. Apparently the riots are quieting down now at least.”   
  
“Mr. President,” says Lacey Dawes, formerly of Fox News. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but just to confirm--you got all of this information from Prime Minister Barkat?”   
  
“And from CIA guys I sent in when he invited me to.” I sniffle again, my nose running. “Sorry if I’m a little, you know. Not composed. Just watched a good man take a bullet in the chest in front of me a few days ago. And then Vinnie shot the assassin. More and more and more dead people because some assholes just couldn’t stand tolerating the existence of people who speak a different language.  
  
“How about all you fuckers stop killing each other for being the wrong color or speaking the wrong language, huh? Nir Barkat said, he wants this peace because he’s really fucking tired of seeing dead kids. And so am I.”   
  
Lacey nods, sitting back down, and the reporters give my favorite a moment to make sure she’s not going to ask anything else before they raise hands. I point to the MSNBC correspondent. “You.”   
  
“Mr. President, the stock market dipped thirty points after the events in Israel, and remains unstable after your tax reform package passed last year. Do you have a plan for stabilizing the economy?”   
  
“First off, the economy’s fine. Largely because the corpo crooks know that if they try to fuck with the American people I’ll fuck them up with the DoC, like I did to those scumfucks at Electronic Arts.” There is an investigation ongoing into Trump Games’s purchase of that company’s remains, and Mueller gave me one Hell of a stink-eye over it, but Vinnie’s keeping his mouth shut so I’m safe on that front. “Second, it’ll recover more when our political revolution fully delivers a popular mandate to unionize the economy and institute workplace democracy. With economic power in the hands of the People, no American will be cheated, left out, or fucked over. You, Faux News.”   
  
“Mr. President, isn’t that communism?” says the new Fox News lady, visibly thinking of her paycheck.   
  
“Nope,” I reply with a shake of my head. “Under communism, all unions would be state-controlled and labor organization outside of state domination would be banned. Under syndicalism, we literally just replace the corporate structure of shareholders and shit with workers voting for their bosses. Communism is centrally planned by bureaucrats, syndicalism is literally a democratic economy run by the people. There’s nothing more American than democracy, so in my opinion we should have as much of it as possible. In government, in the workplace, Hell, the Kurds even have a democratic military but Secretary Mattis’s eyelid started twitching when I talked with him about that so that might not be the best idea. Now, are we done talking about irrelevant bullcrap? I watched a college kid die in front of me the other day, I’m not in a good fucking place you fucking jackasses.”   
  
“Mr. President, business leaders are gravely concerned about your radical Soviet-inspired policies--”   
  
“Anarcho-syndicalist. The Soviets actually  _opposed_  policies and plans like mine since they weren’t Stalin-approved. And fuck ‘business leaders’. Bunch of leeches who haven’t worked an honest day in their lives. Put the power and the money in the hands of regular Americans! MAGA Socialism and all that. Now are we done talking about domestic shit? Does anybody have a question about the peace deal, the coup attempt, or how the new Israel-Palestine’s gonna work?”   
  
The Fox lady clearly doesn’t want to say it, but her job’s probably on the line. Lacey’s giving her a sympathetic grimace. “Mr. President, what about all the starving foreigners you let into the country? Aren’t you concerned they’re bringing crime and terrorism?”   
  
I boil over again, but at least I retain enough presence of mind to throw my glass of water down the hall I came in instead of at the Faux News bimbette’s head. It’s not her fault, damn it. An intern who chose a bad time to walk down the center of the hall ducks aside, and the glass shatters all over the ground down the hall. “Now you listen here and listen really damn good, Fox So-Called News! Lady Liberty’s got a goddamn inscription on the plaque at her motherfucking feet, and it says a lot of stuff about bringing in tired, poor, and huddled masses! I’m bringing people here who’d have been killed, straight-up murdered, by Vlad and his spineless little puppets, by ISIS, by the government of Myanmar, and I’m bringing them to fucking stay! We’re going to make the Yazidis and the Rohingyas and the Russian gays and the Mexicans and the Guatemalans and whoever else who wants to come here FREE, damn it! Fuck anybody who wants closed borders! Bring the refugees in, bring ‘em all! I am  _saving fucking lives_  here, you sick, cowardly, xenophobic sons of bitches! How FUCKING  _DARE_  YOU STAND HERE, IN THE U.S. OF FUCKING A, A NATION BUILT FROM THE GROUND UP BY FUCKING IMMIGRANTS, AND TELL ME THAT WE CAN’T MAKE MORE PEOPLE AMERICAN! FOURTEENTH AMENDMENT, MOTHERFUCKERS! BRING ‘EM HERE AND THEIR KIDS WILL BE AMERICANS BORN AND BRED! Where’s your fucking compassion, too? Are you fucking telling me that THE GREATEST FUCKING COUNTRY ON THIS FUCKING PLANET CAN’T FUCKING TAKE FUCKING CARE OF A FEW MILLION FUCKING REFUGEES? Fuck that shit! Bring ‘em here! Put ‘em to work! They work, they get money, they spend that money on American food and American cars and American apartments and all that shit! So fuck you, Fox News! Not you, specifically, lady, I know you need the paycheck, but to the network in general,  _FUCK YOU!!!_  Bunch of pansy-ass bigoted moron cowards! Fox News fucking hates America! THEY HATE LADY LIBERTY, THEY HATE APPLE PIE AND THEY HATE OUR MILITARY! So FUCK ‘EM! Fuck Fox News! Unplug the motherfuckers, boycott those callous fucks!   
  
“Fuck this shit, I’m bringing in  _more_  refugees, motherfuckers! Just to spite Hannity and his fucking clown posse! MAGA Immigration! MAGA Socialism! Fuck you all, fuck you all, fuck you all!” I cling to the lectern, sobbing out the last bit, and cameras flash. Mattis is at my back, tugging me away, but I lunge back to the microphone.   
  
“I am sick and fucking tired of the US of fucking A standing around twiddling our motherfucking thumbs as people get killed for stupid reasons. I’m bringing more refugees and I’ll never stop. We saved the world once in the ‘40s, we can do it again.”   
  
“OK, Mr. President, I think it’s time for a break,” Mattis says as Vinnie helps pull me from the lectern. “I’ll handle the reporters with your spokeswoman while you cool off, sir.” Indeed, Fatima’s already moving in.   
  
“Don’t you  _fucking_  back down on my policies,” I hiss as I’m frog-marched away by Vinnie and two Secret Service guys. “I mean it! I’m tired of seeing war and death and genocide happen as we sit on our asses and piss on the victims! Fuck all this noise!”   
  
***  
  
 _April 5th. Rafah, Gaza Strip, Provisional People’s Government of the State of Palestine._  
  
The mourners pack the streets for blocks around, and even with heavy Secret Service and military guard, Barkat and I have trouble making our way through. It helps, I guess, that Mashal got the news spread around that this is a peaceful visit, so nobody’s heckling us, though we do get some weird looks. The Provisional People’s Government (AKA, Hamas and Fatah are arguing again so Hamas set up their own rival government to Abbas’s three hours ago) has military of their own on the ground to provide extra security--by which I mean, men in balaclavas with AK-47s stand on rooftops providing overwatch, which definitely doesn’t help tensions that much, but Barkat agreed that we’ve gotta show trust, and Mashal agreed to have them on every other rooftop instead of every rooftop, so here we are.   
  
Tensions are still pretty high in Israel proper; Barkat’s still breaking up riots and cleaning house in the aftermath of Bennett’s coup, but at least the Palestinian leaders are playing nice and are unofficially restricting the return of refugees to Israeli territory through the now-legally-open borders for the next few months. So far, the Palestinian people are pretty understanding. Helps that Barkat and I are here, of course.   
  
“Careful,” Barkat admonishes me as I stumble on a loose cobblestone. The big awkward wreath we’re carrying doesn’t help.   
  
“Yep, I’m good.” Vinnie steadies me as I recover, shadowing us with one hand hanging deceptively close to his gun. “Heard about that mess in Haifa yesterday. Everything dealt with?” Ultranationalist radicals protesting the treaty clashed with Israeli Muslim counterprotesters in the coastal city, fifty-seven wounded and two dead. Barkat had to arrest over three hundred people.   
  
“Well, the hardliners are pissed but what else is new. It’s a mess, Mr. President. The IDF managed to break up the riot, though.”   
  
“If you need more crowd-control gear, water cannons and stuff, all you gotta do is ask. I won’t even charge you.”   
  
“Thank you, I’ll have my people notify yours if we run low on supplies.”   
  
“Your aide coping alright?”   
  
Barkat grimaces. “As well as can be expected. His expenses are paid for, at least.”   
  
“Fair enough. Hope he’s back on his feet soon.”   
  
“I’ll tell him. Your Secret Service agent?”   
  
“She’s sewn back up, but the bone was scratched. She’s gonna be on bed rest, then physical therapy for a few months.”   
  
Barkat grunts sympathetically. “I hope she recovers swiftly.”   
  
“Yeah, me too.” We finally make it through to the cemetery proper. Here it’s easier to move, thanks to more Hamas paramilitaries standing guard, these with makeshift shields and batons. Mashal’s guys are running low on weapons ever since the peace process began in earnest and they started turning over war materiel. Ahead, the head of the funeral procession’s reached the grave and is lowering al-Rafahi’s corpse to the ground, one guy leaning in to put three balls of dirt carefully onto the bed of the grave. A middle-aged woman in white weeps silently on the ground beside the gravediggers as two skinny women, one a teenager by the looks of her and the other probably an adult, comfort her.   
  
“She’s lost both her sons,” Barkat mutters.   
  
“Who, his mother?”   
  
“Yes. God, I hope this is worth it.”   
  
“It will be,” I reply with conviction. “It’s  _gotta_  be.”   
  
The women lower the shrouded body in as we wait, a mullah standing by; the cameras I brought with me are rolling, and I can see the glint off of the CNN and BBC teams’ cameras from their vantage point on a nearby roof. The funeral procession lines up again, and we take turns one by one tossing handfuls of dirt--three each--in, saying an Arabic verse that I really hope I remember properly.   
  
Barkat kinda pulls my ass out of the fire by temporarily shifting the wreath to me and going first with the dirt and the prayer. “مِنْهَا َلَقْنَاكُمْ وَفِيهَا نُعِيدُكُمْ وَمِنْهَا نُ ْرِجُكُمْ تَارَةً أُ ْرَى,” he says. Equivalent of ‘dust to dust’, I guess. He takes the wreath and I mimic him, then we move on. The mullah does another quick prayer, something about reminding the dead guy of his faith or something like that, my Arabic isn’t good enough to catch it all and I learned TV-style Arabic, not the liturgical dialect, anyway.   
  
The gravediggers bury the corpse completely as soon as the mullah’s done, and pat down the soil. The dead man’s sisters and mother spread some flowers, his mother shaking with grief, and Barkat and I follow up with the wreath. A few dozen more mourners, including Khaled Mashal, who apparently drove down here right after the argument with Abbas that led to Gaza becoming a Provisional People’s whatever for the day, pay their respects, and the mullah leads the entire mass of people in a last prayer.   
  
Finally, it’s our turn. Barkat and I assemble behind Mashal as he approaches the mother, clasping her hand in his and saying something in Arabic--I’m pretty sure I catch “peace” and “martyr”. She nods jerkily, and the older daughter offers quiet thanks. Barkat steps up next, and the daughters tense, but he gets down on a knee in front of the mother.   
  
I nudge Mashal as Barkat starts speaking in Arabic. “Hey, can you translate?” I whisper.   
  
“Of course,” he murmurs. “He says,  _I know that my regrets and well-wishes may not be the most welcome, but your son was a true hero. He gave his life to save mine, and to preserve the lives of thousands of others through a peace that will, God willing, last for a thousand years. I will never forget what your son did for me--if you or one of your family ever needs aid, I will do whatever I can to help._  He said the part about Allah in Hebrew, probably just a phrase.”   
  
“Thanks,” I whisper back as the woman lets out a quiet sob and nods spasmodically in response to Barkat’s little speech. Barkat falls back to my side as the daughters thank him; I gulp, steeling myself. My turn.   
  
I nod to a flunky, who hands me the little box, and step forwards. “Mr. Mashal, can you translate for me?”   
  
The Hamas higher-up steps up immediately. I clear my throat. “Ma’am, I’m sorry my Arabic isn’t good enough to tell you in your language, but damn it, you son’s going to Paradise.” I don’t believe in afterlives, but it’s probably a good thing to say. “In his memory, I’ve asked the United States Congress to consider issuing a gold medal to Mr. Mashal here, Prime Minister Barkat, Mr. Abbas of the Palestinian Authority, and to your late son, to memorialize their courage in securing peace when so many were willing to commit treason in the name of war and hate. Also…” I open the box, and pull out the medallion inside. “By my authority as President of the United States, I bestow upon Muhammad ibn Murad al-Rafahi the Presidential Medal of Freedom. I’m gonna give one to each of the treaty signatories, too, but this one I wanted to deliver now. Since you’re his next of kin, I’m giving it to you.” I pass the medal to her bony hand, gently closing her fingers around it with mine, and she murmurs some kind of thanks as Mashal translates for me. “Put it on his grave, put it on the wall with a picture, do what you feel is best to honor your son’s memory. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I think it might help to remember your son as a hero, and for the good that he did with his last breath.”   
  
She squeezes her eyes shut, tears running down her face, and nods once. She says something in Arabic--Mashal translates. “She says, thank you--she wishes that God had given her son more time to do good for his people, but she is proud of him.”   
  
I feel my lips curl up in...it’s not a grin or a grimace. I’m not sure what I even feel right now. “Yeah. That’s a good way to feel. He made a good choice.” I stand as Mashal translates, and the dead man’s sisters are crying a bit now, too.   
  
“This should be worth some PR points,” I murmur as I retake my place by Barkat. “And should help keep the peace.”   
  
The Israeli glares at me, suppressing a scowl. “Is that all this is to you? Theater?”   
  
“It’s a thing that’ll keep the peace and save lives,” I retort. “I don’t care what else it is. We’re ending the cycle of violence. I literally do not have the energy to give a fuck about anything else anymore.”   
  
Barkat nods at that after a few moments. “Fair enough. But you could show some more respect. Arab or not, al-Rafahi died a hero.”   
  
“Can’t argue with that.” Really nothing else I can reasonably say.   
  
***  
  
 _April 8th. Rome, Italy._  
  
“OK,” John Oliver, former comedian, said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. “It’s probably simpler to list which of these people we can confirm  _aren’t_  corrupt.”   
  
The other three people at his table, a woman named Katia Belillo and two men by the names of Pietro Grasso and Matteo Renzi, nodded ruefully. “I can work on that,” Grasso offered in accented English. “I have done considerable prosecution work in the past, I should be able to find enough candidates who can pass the vetting process.”   
  
“Even once we have the judiciary back in a functional state, we will need new elections,” Renzi pointed out. “Trump set off the political equivalent of a nuclear bomb just before the vote. This...will call the legitimacy of the vote into some question, I believe.”   
  
“That is a risk,” Grasso agreed. John Oliver, Prime Minister of Italy due to a legal technicality, sighed.   
  
“Look, I want to leave this job as much as both of you want it, but I won’t be responsible for Italy imploding again into political strife.” He levelled a look at Belillo. “Especially with you and your coalition’s speaker getting into fist-fights with Mussolini’s granddaughter!”   
  
Belillo snorted. “The little  _lupa_  had it coming for saying that we should have the  _Marina militare_  shoot refugees on their way here. I’m sorry that it caused a fuss, but Comrade Donnie has proven that we no longer can allow the forces of fascism to operate unchallenged.” After a moment, she added, “And she threw the first punch, anyway.”   
  
“I get that what she said was despicable and that everybody’s emotions are running high because far-right extremists keep trying to murder President Trump, but we’re trying to project an image of stability here!” Oliver slumped back in his chair with a sigh. “OK, how are we on Berlusconi?”   
  
“He is hiding in the Kremlin with an estimated ten million euros of money and assets, much of which is likely illicitly obtained,” Grasso reported. “Since the Senate nationalized his media empire in the emergency session, we do not need to worry about Russian propaganda. At least, not as much as we feared. You  _will_  need to look out for League and CasaPound diehards; the dedicated fascists have not given up yet, and we have received credible threats on your life.”   
  
Oliver groaned. “Of-fucking-course. Alright. Alright, I’m going to cope. I swear to God I’m going to cope.” He groped blindly for a water bottle on the table. “Priority one has to be getting the judiciary fixed. Then we start the public-works program. Then we try legislators and ex-legislators.” He took a long drink, sweat beading on his brow. “Aaahh. Can we do this in a reasonable amount of time?”   
  
The three Italians looked at each other, then at the pasty British-American. “I think so,” Grasso said. “And we  _will_  if I have anything to say about it.”   
  
“That’ll have to do,” muttered John Oliver, Prime Minister of Italy, desperately wishing that he’d stayed a comedian.   
  
***  
  
 _April 10th._  
  
“Your accidental cult’s in the news again,” Annie says, walking into the Oval Office with her clipboard out. “You remember what happened yesterday?”   
  
“How could I not?” Yesterday was a mess. An anti-abortion extremist tried to kill a doctor in Alabama when she was having guests over for dinner, but it turns out she was being guarded by ‘John Brown Gun Club’ members (the guests) with concealed-carry permits. The extremist’s dead at the scene, eleven bullets to the torso. The militia members are in a holding cell but haven’t been charged, they got some hotshot young lawyer called Elena Cohen to defend them--she’s the President of a lawyers’ union called the National Lawyers Guild. Left-wing activist lawyers, if you can believe that.   
  
“You got solid intel on the doctor yet?”   
  
“Shaken up but alive and unharmed. There are protests in three states, in Kansas the protest sort of merged with the teachers’ protest, and now Topeka’s completely gridlocked because they spontaneously marched through the streets and the new Governor called off the riot police because he’s a placeholder after Brownback and he’s worried about being thrown out on his ass before his administration properly begins. There was a riot in South Bend, Indiana, between pro- and anti-abortion protesters, but the Mayor got the cops out and got it under control, no deaths but six injured enoguh to be treated at the hospital. All are stable and have been discharged, though.”   
  
“Jesus. I want updates as they come on the issue.” Fuck me, can’t I have one week that isn’t insane?   
  
“You’ve got it, Mr. President.”   
  
“Oh, idea I had. Since my post-POTUS career is probably gonna be in entertainment and my chances of reelection are about as good as Boris Johnson’s chances at becoming Prime Minister. How about I start writing nice pleasant wholesome gay kids’ books and movies?”   
  
“...wholesome and pleasant. You.”   
  
“I can be wholesome!” She still looks skeptical. “Besides, gay kids exist, and they need to know it’s OK to have a crush on another little boy or girl. What kids’ media touches on serious interpersonal relationships is way too heteronormative. It’s always a boy and a girl chastely kissing in the tween media, too.”   
  
“...OK, I get your point.” She’s nodding along now. “I would’ve liked to have that, growing up. Even with understanding parents. Would’ve helped me work through a lot of stuff before I hit high school. I’ll talk to Mr. Wilson and see what your companies can get going.”   
  
“Thanks, Annie, you’re the best. How’s Agent Clay?”   
  
She grimaces. “Recovering, but not fast enough for my tastes. I’m having to invent ways to cajole her into doing her physical therapy exactly as prescribed. She  _hates_  it, and the bed rest.”   
  
“Yeah, nobody likes that shit. Tell her it’s a Presidential order.”   
  
“Already did, not effective.”   
  
“...fair enough, then. Handcuff her in place?”   
  
“Not my style, too police-y. I’m good with ropes, though.”   
  
I nod along. “Fair enough. They teach that in the Girl Scouts these days?”   
  
She snorts. “Learned a lot from my ex, actually.”   
  
I flush as I realize what kind of rope work she means. “Oh. Fuck, I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”   
  
“Mr. President, you are adorably naive. Especially for someone who reads  _Wonder Woman_  comics.”   
  
“I mean, I  _grokked_  it eventually, I’m just slow on the uptake.”   
  
She gives me a patronizing pat on the head, and I sigh. “Whatever floats your boat, Mr. President.”   
  
“Yeah, well, at least I admit I’m a fucking moron who’s nowhere near qualified for this job.”   
  
Fatima and Vinnie walk in as Annie chuckles. “Donnie, time for your 2 o’clock,” my chief henchman says. “Fatima needs your input on something as we walk.”   
  
I grudgingly get up. I fucking hate therapy, but Mattis and Vinnie put their feet down and demanded that I get treatment after my little outburst a week ago. Something about “obvious post-traumatic stress” and “if you don’t get daily sessions I’m quitting”. I happen to like having a competent Sec-Def so daily sessions it is.   
  
“What’s the matter?”   
  
“We’re getting another shipment of LGBT Russian refugees today, Mr. President,” Fatima says. “Are you ‘happy and excited’, ‘ecstatic’, or ‘bigly awesomesauce’ to have them here?”   
  
“Uh, how about ‘these people are bigly great, MAGA LGBT people, I love ‘em all, even more than I love fucking Vlad’?”   
  
“Yeah, I’m not conveying that one. Happy and excited, then?”   
  
I nod reluctantly. “OK. Hey, listen--you’re White House Press Secretary now, all official and stuff. So don’t take any shit from the press, right?” I feel a little guilty for only promoting Fatima to the official position after we had sex in Israel, but honestly, my administration’s handling of the press has been shambolic at best outside of my insane rants disguised as press conferences, and she swears she can take the heat, so...why not?   
  
“Don’t worry, I eat Fox News for breakfast. Now go on, get your brain back in fighting shape, handso--Mr. President.”   
  
“Sure thing, Fatima.” Then my brain processes her slip. We both blush. Yeah, OK, so we need to talk about our relationship status again.   
  
How the Hell did my life get this crazy? I remember when pissing on Reagan’s grave was a big event.   
  
...maybe I should jack off on that Confederate monument on that hill in Georgia? That might make me feel better.   
  
***  
  
 _April 12th._  
  
“Beebo saved the world,” I begin before Berlanti’s even sat down.   
  
The self-proclaimed Co-Extreme-Leader of the CW’s superhero TV properties chuckles at that. “Thought you’d like that one, Mr. President.”   
  
“Dude, that whole season was pretty much the best I’ve ever seen out of any TV show ever. Except maybe  _Deep Space Nine_. Have a seat--want anything to eat or drink? Booze, Subway, I can order pizza?”   
  
“I wouldn’t mind a veggie sub. You still stock up on spinach, cucumbers, and pickles on top of the usual?”   
  
“Yeah, but they swapped out the vinegarette I like for Italian style. Bastards.” I reach down into my minifridge and toss the man a sub, grabbing one for myself as I lounge in my Presidential seat. “Hey, I just wanted to say--thanks. For Beebo. I kinda needed that after all the shit that went down in Israel.”   
  
“Honestly, Marc’s more responsible for that than me, I’ve been trying to un-fuck  _Arrow_  after he screwed the pooch.” Berlanti unwraps his sandwich.   
  
“Seriously? I thought all Guggie could do was fuck up Black Canary.”   
  
“He’s not a moron. Just...not super popular with the fans.”   
  
“Yeah, because the Olicity nonsense turned Felicity into a total asshole. And basically the last seven or eight episodes of season 4 were…”   
  
“Total shit to the point that even Amell cracks jokes about how bad it was?”   
  
“...I was gonna say ‘suboptimal’, but yeah, they’re like shaving my balls with a power sander.”   
  
He raises an eyebrow. “There’s an analogy you don’t hear every day.”   
  
“Dude, I remember all of an alternate 2018 in which I binged season 4, that shit was intolerable when I got it downloaded into my head.”   
  
“Yeah, we’re working to recover from that disaster.” Berlanti passes me a folder. “Now, I’ve had an idea for  _Supergirl_  season 4. Nazi Trump was a hit, it seems that having him as a comic relief to Overman’s psycho evil actually worked, so I was thinking--since we’re bringing you back, let’s bring another you in, too?”   
  
“What, Nazi Trump?”   
  
“No.” He grins as I flip the folder open, my eyes going wide. “I’m talking a foe for Comrade Commie.”   
  
“...I’m interested.”   
  
“Basically, the numbers we got for the crossover were  _fantastic_. Over ten million viewers per episode for all four episodes. You attention-whoring for us drove the ratings through the roof, and the Suits want me to capitalize. Hence, you playing an even more over-the-top openly socialist parody of yourself-- _fighting_  an over-the-top parody of your persona from the campaign trail.”   
  
This is the funniest thing I’ve heard in weeks! “I’ll do it!”   
  
“I figured it’d be that easy,” Berlanti chuckles. “Hey, good job on the  _Supergirl_  finale. I know we were cutting it close on the schedule there--”   
  
“Don’t worry, man,” I cut in. “Last 2018 the back end of the season had to be delayed, comes--came--whatever, next week through mid-June. Total shitshow, by the way. Three witches, it was ridiculous.”   
  
“Well, we dodged a bullet there,” Berlanti chuckles. “Fan reaction to the finale is fantastic, and I’m talking well beyond the level we normally get from McGrath exceeding her contractually obligated #supercorp Tweets. Seven million viewers, the hashtag ‘#generaldanvers’ is trending on Twitter, and the fanfic is off the charts.”   
  
“Send me the link to that fanfic. And off the charts how?” I pull out my smartphone and pull up my private email… “Oh, shit, that’s a lot of notifications.”   
  
“We’re over two thousand fanfics on Archive Of Our Own with the General Danvers tag, just in the last--”   
  
“Yeah, I know, Greg, I’ve got over fifty new comments on my gratuitous sappy wedding fanfic. And twenty more on my  _Hangover_  parody where all the characters get married to each other in various permutations while drunk. Holy shit.” I navigate over to Ao3 itself… “ _Wow_.”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Well, first time I’ve seen this fandom produce stuff other than Supercorp fluff, weird incest, and hardcore Supercorp smut in...probably months. OK. Wow. We did this. And the cast, of course.”   
  
“To be fair, your scripts, mostly your show.”   
  
“Nah, Greg, we’re equal partners, I couldn’t do this without you. Literally, I’m too busy leading this shithole country to run the show, too.”   
  
“Well, from what you tell me, I gather that the ratings weren’t as good...um, last 2018?”   
  
“Yeah--Hell,  _Arrow_  was even worse. You managed to tone down the idiocy and Felicity’s shittiness. Pity Diaz still sucks.”   
  
“Ugh, don’t remind me. Marc wrote that villain into the ground before I could salvage anything.”   
  
“Still better than Arrow season 4.”   
  
“OK, you can stop rubbing it in now. I know that in retrospect I should’ve given him more oversight on seasons 3 and 4.”   
  
“Fine,” I shrug, talking with my mouth full. “So, we got our cast for  _Supergirl_  season 4 lined up?”   
  
“That we do. Nicole Maines is in for sure.”   
  
“ _Awesome_.” I scroll through my phone. “Wow. How many new fanfics inspired by the finale once I filter out omegaverse, tentacle porn, hate fics aimed at me for the kiss tease, and Manhell death fics?”   
  
“About fifty percent of the new stories are non-pornographic,” Greg replies. “So far. Most of the smut is actually under the Supercorp tag. Hurt-comfort stuff. Katie McGrath wrote one, I only know because I was overseeing a shoot personally and she was checking the comments on her phone when I ordered a break. Anyway, I’ve got a second-draft script for the season premiere, based on the outline you sent me. Also, I like the idea you had about Supergirl and Lena Luthor getting married in the Fortress of Solitude.”   
  
“Do we have a Magog actor yet?”   
  
“I’ve got it down to a short list. Bryan Cranston was tentatively receptive, but he’s asking a lot.”   
  
“Well, see what you can do; I’ve got a shitload of money coming in. Betting on  _Black Panther_  with Saudi blood money.”   
  
“You really ought to stop taking Saudi blood money,” Berlanti notes.   
  
“Eh, I have enough dirt on Mohammed bin Salman, thanks to him buying a couple bugged floors of Trump Tower from me with that blood money, to get him executed for political inconvenience, and let me tell you, that’s a  _lot_  of dirt. Even with my new taxes, I’m still making a killing. Not to mention that  _Trump Games_  is making money  _already_  thanks to my propaganda bullcrap. Weird shit, that. Anyway, I’ve got a couple of draft scripts, but we’re gonna need to get some bigly yuge writing sessions, my dude. I got kinda distracted by the whole Israel thing.”   
  
“Frankly, Mr. President, I’m surprised you’re still functional after that experience.”   
  
I bare my teeth in a rictus grin, and Berlanti winces. “I’m not, Greg.”   
  
“I’m sorry. I, uh, didn’t realize…”   
  
“It’s fine.” I shake my head. “Been trying to chill out for weeks. I watched a good man die in front of me, and it’s...yeah. Hitting me pretty hard.” I can still remember Muhammad ibn-Murad’s leap in front of Barkat, the unnatural shudder his body made as he spasmed on the ground. “Let’s meet on...oh, the 22nd. I’ll mail you the address. Bring the script team.”   
  
“You got it, Donnie. Just don’t call Bob and Jessica Brian and Janele this time.”   
  
“Wait, I got their names wrong?”   
  
Berlanti raises an eyebrow. “You do it all the time. And seriously, Janele? That’s a stereotypically black name.”   
  
“...shit, you’re right, I don’t want to be racist.”   
  
“Racist? Honestly, I’m just confused. Why would you call a white woman a stereotypically black name?”   
  
“Probably because I literally can only remember, like, ten people’s names at this point. And five more nicknames.” I grope blindly for the minifridge and pull out a bottle of Absolut. “Vodka?”   
  
“No, thanks--uh, are you sure…”   
  
“Suit yourself,” I reply before he’s finished talking, pop the cap, and chug two gulps straight from the bottle. It burns going down, but I’m getting used to that fast. “ _OK_. Anything else we need to talk about?”   
  
Berlanti eyes me cautiously. “You’re  _sure_  you’re stable enough to do this?”   
  
I take another swig of vodka, swallow, and belch. “Never better.”   
  
He doesn’t look convinced. “You’re definitely not.”   
  
I grimace. “Yeah, OK. I have good days and bad days. What do you expect? It’s not even been two weeks since I was nearly assassinated for the  _third_  time. I don’t wanna talk about it.”   
  
He shoots me a sympathetic look, but thankfully continues with what he was moving towards. “Here’s an idea I came up with, since you mentioned something about moving  _Black Lightning_  to TV. As part of that, we have a concept for...I don’t know what to call this,  _Queer Ladies’ Meet-And-Greet_  was the idea McGrath had when we came up with it in the bar. Anyway, we basically have all the not-straight women from the various shows get together and fight some villain in a special crossover. Air it during the summer--”   
  
“July 4th.”   
  
“Mr. President?”   
  
I lever my vodka bottle at him like a sword. “Fourth of July premiere. We cook up a script in the next two weeks, I’ll pay for all the actresses, re-use re-dressed sets as much as we can, stuff like that.”   
  
“Cutting it close, Mr. President--”   
  
“Never tell me the odds, Greg!” I wave my arm dramatically and take another swig of vodka.   
  
“You  _know_  it takes nine days an episode,  _after_  we get schedules, table reads, edits, set and costume work, all that done,  _and_  it takes the better part of a week to get the effects in!”   
  
“Greg, I will literally give you a million dollars.”   
  
He snorts. “Our shared cut of the Lego deal is projected to be three times that. Pretty soon I’m gonna be able to buy myself a private island.”   
  
“Try for Pablo Escobar’s island. Norman’s Cay, it’s that place in the Bahamas where that Fyre Festival scam was supposed to be.”   
  
Berlanti groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “How about next year?”   
  
“ _Greg_ …”   
  
“Donnie, I am literally trying to organize eight things at once. I can’t do it.”   
  
I sigh and relent, leaning back in my seat. “Fine. Lets us make it a five-parter, too.”   
  
“ _Five_ …”   
  
“Think about it. Get the non-female LGBT characters out there, too.”   
  
“...I’m listening.”   
  
“It’s a big gay fuckin’ party where they all get out and start kicking the ass of some villain. I dunno who, we’ll think of something.” I belch, and take another swig of vodka. “And, like, play it over the’ summer. Attention. Ratings.”   
  
“...I see where you’re going with that,” Berlanti nods. “The Suits will want to tie it into the new streaming service they want to launch.”   
  
I focus as hard as I can on not slurring my words. “Greg. Fair warning. I’m gonna be shutting down in-house streaming services. Violation o’  _US v. Paramount_. So, yeah.”   
  
Berlanti sighs, but nods. “Yeah, I figured there was only so far that shit could go.”   
  
“Don’t worry, man. I’m gonna hit Disney first.” I rub my hands together with a nasty cackle. “Oh, that’s gonna be so fucking fun. Iger and Horn are gonna be spitting fire. Anyway. Bring  _Black Lightning_  to TV?”   
  
“Pretty much my plan already.”   
  
“I fucking love you, man.”   
  
He accepts my drunken hug with a quick pat on the back. Probably just because I’m drunk and visibly fucked up, but whatever. I need the hug.   
  
***  
  
 _April 15th, 2018._  
  
I stride out to my podium, my Idi Amin costume jangling as I walk, jaw set. This is gonna be big.   
  
“MAGA Education!” I shout into my microphone as soon as I reach the lectern. “MAGA Socialism! Finally, some good news to take our minds off of all the foreign-policy shit! The House just passed the new incarnation of ol’ Comrade Donnie’s new education reform package, which means that VICTORY is in sight! We will Make Education Great Again, teach our kids the  _truth_  about history, about how Jeff Davis was a filthy traitor and Andrew Jackson was a genocidal nut job. We will make our kids the bigly best in math and science, and at the humanities, and at social sciences! We will have bigly great psychologists, biologists, chemists, mathematicians, writers, artists, the best in the world! MAGA Education!”   
  
It’s a great fucking day. The education strikes and teach-ins have paralyzed fifteen states for nearly a month now, forcing the Republicans to pass a sweeping education reform package tailored by Schumer and Pelosi on my behalf.   
  
Helps that McConnell was about to face a recall election, I think.   
  
“Now, this bill has to make it through the Senate, but let’s face it, Moscow Mitch McCrackhead will have to pass it unless he wants to be out on his ass.” Moscow Mitch, I like that. “Get out there, America! MAKE your Senators vote for the MAGA Education Act! Make Moscow Mitch our bitch! MAGA America, MAGA Syndicalism!”   
  
The minions arrayed behind me salute crisply. “MAGA Syndicalism!” they chant. “Politicians are our bitches! Voter power! Voter power!”   
  
“That’s the spirit!” I chuckle. “And what happens if a politician is more interested in fellating his corporate masters than in protecting and serving the great American working people?”   
  
“VOTE THE BUM OUT! VOTE THE BUM OUT! VOTE THE BUM OUT!”   
  
“DAMN STRAIGHT!” I grin, and for once it’s not a hideous rictus thing. “We will Make Our Education System Great Again. Everyone will get the best education America can provide, and because this is America, it will be the best education in the world! Wave the Red Banner of Labor proudly, Comrades, for this is the first step on the road to a great socialist America that spans the very stars themselves! Shit, dude, that would be pretty damn awesome. OK, any questions?”   
  
Lacey Dawes raises her hand. “My favorite reporter!” I call on her.   
  
“Hey, dipshit. Theatrics aside, congratulations on forcing this through. How’s your therapy going?”   
  
I grimace. “Not as well as I’d like but better than I expected. I managed to sleep through the night last night, so that’s a thing.” I don’t mention that I was stoned on Ambien, but I’m pretty sure she guesses. “I don’t know how our troops do it, but you know, seeing people get killed in front of me, it’s made me even more committed to giving Veterans’ Affairs the money and support that Secretary Uriarte needs to enact sweeping reforms. Secretary Uriarte’s a great man doing some great work, I hear that he called Isaac Perlmutter a ‘corrupt racist sack of shit’ on Twitter yesterday in connection with the FBI’s attempted arrest.” Mueller had James Comey try to nab Ike Perlmutter last night, but the slippery fuck had skipped town. We think he took a red-eye to Moscow, to help Vlad complete his collection of rich dirtbags.   
  
“Speaking of which, where is Perlmutter?”   
  
“Don’t know,” I admit, “but he’s probably hiding out abroad. Even Disney doesn’t know where he is, according to my inside man who owes me a shit-ton of favors. Hey, at least I got a nicce Rolex off of Ike!”   
  
“...isn’t accepting the bribe illegal?”   
  
“Probably,” I admit with a shrug. “But the FBI doesn’t care, given that I turned right around and ruined Perlmutter’s life. I even explicitly ordered Secretary Uriarte to tell Ike to fuck off. But it’s a nice watch. MAGA Thriftiness.”   
  
“You’re deplorable, Donnie.”   
  
“And you’re lovely, Lacey,” I grin right back. She chuckles.   
  
“Down, boy, I’ve got a date with Channing Tatum and I don’t have time for shaved orangutans.”   
  
“Oh, hey, congrats! Good luck, I’d tap that ass in a heartbeat.” And I would, too. I’m like 80 or 82% sure I’m straight, but some things transcend sexuality. “Still, the guy’s a fucking idiot, who’s married to  _Jenna Dewan_  and can’t find a way to make it work? Dumbass. Anyway, any other questions?”   
  
Another reporter speaks up. “Mr. President, any comment on the recent shooting in Alabama?”   
  
I pause, looking for the reporter. CNN, fine. Fucking mood killers. “Uh, yeah. Look, guys--I know we want the Revolution, I know you got an urge to protect good people from fascist terrorism, I get it, I really genuinely do. I get that this particular case was a clear-cut case of self-defense--doesn’t get more clear than a home invasion during dinner, honestly--but still, ventilating some nut job isn’t a great look. Next time, bring Mace and a fucking Taser, take the nutcase down with those, wait for the cops, and Comrade Donnie will put them under a fucking microscope to make sure justice gets done. Forming militias is the wrong way to go about this. You’re not fighting an openly hostile regime, you’ve got your pal Comrade Donnie in the Oval Office.   
  
“So just...tone it down a little, maybe? I know that far-right terrorism is really bad and really scary right now, and I think my Inauguration Day speech  _might_  have pissed off that hornets’ nest, but really, guys, I don’t want another Civil War. Do your part and leave the gun at home. If you need protection at a protest, bring pepper spray. Just please don’t fucking kill people. I’m really fucking tired of seeing dead people, even dead terrorists. Let’s take ‘em alive. Let the martyr wannabes rot in prison, let the fascists experience maximum security for themselves and see how they like it. Killing them doesn’t work as well long-term. It’s not World War 2, this isn’t Nazi Germany, and honestly, folks, I’m just so fucking tired of death.   
  
“That’s all. Now let our justice system do its work and fuck off, because I sure as hell am.”   
  
I storm out, snapping my fingers at a minion and hissing for ‘a really fucking big thing of hardcore booze’ as I go.   
  
***  
  
 _April 16th.  
  
\-- “‘Moscow Mitch Is Our Bitch’ is trending on Twitter now. I can’t believe this is fucking happening.”  
  
\-- “Micah, what I’ve learned over this past year and a bit is that the world doesn’t fucking make sense anymore. Vodka?”   
  
\-- “...yeah, sure. Why not?” _  
  
\--Micah Cohen and Nate Silver, personal conversation during preparation for a 538 live-chat, April 16th, 2018.   
  
***  
  
 _April 19th._  
  
“Mueller’s here for you,” Annie says from the door.   
  
“Let him in.” I straighten my tie and crumple up my sandwich wrapper. “Bob! How’s the hunt on Manafort?”   
  
Mueller jerks his head at the minions attending me as he walks in. “We need the room.”   
  
I nod to Vinnie. “Clear it. You stay.”   
  
“Mr. President--” Mueller starts.   
  
“Vinnie’s in the circle. He’s my guy.” After a moment, Mueller grimaces and nods. Vinnie shoos the mooks out and takes up a spot by the door. “So?”   
  
“We’ve got Manafort, though I think he’s hiding something,” Mueller tells me. “Does Putin have any dirt on him that you know?”   
  
“Knowing Vlad, probably some kinda threat against Manafort’s family. In the old timeline, he lied under oath to you and ate the sentence for perjury.”   
  
“...that’s a man afraid of finding a horse head in his bed,” Mueller agrees. “Alright, then. Another matter--Jeffrey Epstein.”   
  
“That pedo financial guy? Trump went to some of his parties. If you can nail him, please do it.”   
  
“We’ve found ties between him and Alex Acosta,” Mueller growls. “Know anything about that?”   
  
“Acosta?” I rack my brains. “Didn’t he used to work for the Bushleaguer? NLRB, right?”   
  
“And the Justice Department. He made a...rather generous no-prosecution deal with Epstein in 2007, despite ample evidence that Epstein was an active pedophile. More than thirty witnesses. What worries me is that Acosta’s office seems to have had a borderline improper degree of association with Epstein’s legal team.”   
  
“So you want me to decide whether we burn resources investigating Acosta.”   
  
“Not really. It’s merely a big case. And I was hoping you could shed some light on it.”   
  
“Go ahead and put a few guys on it, but I haven’t gotten any of Trump’s memories yet, and Epstein is my #1 priority. Nail his ass to the wall and anyone associated with him.”   
  
“Mr. President, technically  _you_  are associated with him.”   
  
Record scratch. “Hold up,  _what_?”   
  
“We have video recording of you--I mean, Donald Trump, at a party in the ‘90s with Epstein. Acting friendly, at that. And interviews where Trump praised him.”   
  
“Jesus fuck, I feel unclean.” I tug at my tie with a grimace. “Like Mattis and I told you a few months ago, Bob, I’ve got none of that racist pig’s memories. All I know is that Epstein is a bad dude.”   
  
“Fair enough,” Mueller allows, visibly relieved to have an excuse to stop talking about the matter. He’s a hardass of the highest order, but talking about my supernatural nature is kind of unnerving even for me, and Mueller’s clearly disturbed by it. “Just...let me know  _immediately_  if anything changes.”   
  
“You got it, Bob. And good luck. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta shower about 10 million times.”   
  
“...I sympathize,” my DNI admits. “Despite never having been sent into the body of a corrupt lecher.”   
  
“Yeah. Oh, and Bob--you ever got a question for me, you come hit me up anytime. I’ll do whatever I can.”   
  
***  
  
 _April 22nd._  
  
“Alright,” Fatima says, sitting down across from me as Vinnie, as usual, lurks behind me like a lethal shadow. Annie’s out taking Agent Clay to a physical therapy appointment--apparently it takes three months to heal from a scratched femur. “So, since you wanted to expand  _DonnieTube_  into a larger-scale voter education initiative, I’ve been hiring people to get the multimedia platform going, but I’m thinking, we can expand our initiative by focusing on adding more information to the videos as we produce them. The principal weakness of the videos we’ve had so far is that you’re relying on the voters to follow the links and educate themselves. I think we’re missing the opportunity to reach voters with limited time and ability to parse academic information.”   
  
“So you want to put in more...simplistic links or something, in the credits?” I nod along. “OK, makes sense. Hard to parse climate-change studies without at least some college to learn how to read scientific papers, so that’s gonna be important going forwards.”   
  
“Sort of.” Fatima puts a tablet in front of me, a  _DonnieTube_  video draft queued up. “Here’s one my people already did for your  _Revitalizing Our Heartland For Our Future: Emerging Industries For Our Great Nation_  video.”   
  
“Right, the solar panel one. Isn’t ‘We will make all the bigly best tech and sell that shit to the Chinese to make a buck’ enough?”   
  
“It’s effective, but I think we’re missing a great opportunity to teach people. Watch.”   
  
I do so. The video plays--Fatima’s cut it to after my ten-minute rant, and she pops up in front of a colorful greenscreened background. “Hi, there!” video-Fatima chirps with a warm smile. “I’m Fatima, President Trump’s press secretary, and I’m here to tell you folks where you can learn more about Comrade Donnie’s plans for bringing manufacturing jobs back to our America.” She points up, and a link pops up. “Click here to read a streamlined article about the science of solar panels, and why building them is going to be essential for our nation’s future.” She points left, and another link pops up. “If you’ve got a little more time and want to learn some useful life skills that can help you sniff out corporate lies, click here to read our introductory guide to reading scientific papers.” She points right, and another link. “When you’re done there, here’s a detailed technical description of how we’re going to make our manufacturing great again with solar power, and why Comrade Bernie’s Green New Deal is important for our future.” She pauses, and the links disappear after a moment. “Thanks for watching  _DonnieTube_! Check back every day for more messages from and chats with President Comrade Donnie and his team. MAGA Syndicalism!”   
  
The credits briefly roll. I lean back, nodding appreciatively. “Great work, Fatima. Absolutely fantastic.”   
  
She flushes. “Aww, thanks. I thought it was cute.”   
  
“Works great. Roll with it. Keep it up!” I scroll back in the video a bit. “Love how you point to the pared-down version first. You’ve got pop-science writers hired?”   
  
“I’m recruiting from  _National Geographic_  and  _Phys.Org_. Seems alright to me so far.”   
  
“I’m going to send you some of my favorite paleo papers, have them write up mass-media versions for me.” Think I’ll start with Prum’s subtle fuck-you to Fedducia. “Seriously, Fatima, this is some good shit. You’re the best, I mean it.”   
  
“I gotta agree,” Vinnie rumbles. “It even makes sense with his constant harping on voters needing to be informed and educated.”   
  
“Thank you both,” Fatima says, and I wave her down.   
  
“Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, no thanks necessary, you just did me a huge solid. Give yourself a raise, you earned it.”   
  
She’s blushing for real now. “You’re cute, Donnie.”   
  
“Heh,” I chuckle. “You don’t need to lie to me.”   
  
“I’m not,” she says. “Even though it’s the same body, you’re kind of the opposite of Donald Trump in that regard.”   
  
I flush and look away. “Heh. OK. Weird. Thing is, I never was that attractive in my old life. Never even had a date, actually.”   
  
“Well...I kind of like you. To be honest.”   
  
“Uh,” I stammer. “Um, uh. Oh. Um.”   
  
Vinnie groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Five minutes of professionalism. A new record. Great work. Now can you two  _sort your shit_  out and stop bothering me?”   
  
Even as I look at Fatima, I know that we both know it’s not gonna happen today.   
  
***  
  
 _April 26th._  
  
“So, uh…” the Warner Brothers suit whose name I didn’t bother to remember says, casting a glance at me as I look briefly up from my phone. “Mr. Berlanti, I think I speak for a number of this corporation’s officers when I say that we have certain concerns about the marketability of some of these plans of yours.”   
  
“Marketability?” Berlanti asks with a measured tone. Much politer than I’d be, but he kind of has to be; the Suits are apparently questioning his creative decisions, which is ironic considering that he’s supposed to have complete control.   
  
Dicks.   
  
“Ah, yes. We are curious as to how making Supergirl a lesbian grows the brand; there are concerns that this will hurt the market share in China and Russia and damage the brand identity with ideologically right of center groups here in the US.”   
  
“First of all, she’s bisexual,” Berlanti corrects the stuffed shirt as I text Fatima and Annie, live updates still coming in about the Senate committee vote. Schumer’s maneuvering like a pro, but he has to court nervous swing-state Republicans to beat McConnell, and that’s always a dicey proposition. “There is a difference. Second, by embracing the show’s popularity with socially liberal audiences and especially key pro-LGBT 18-24 demographics, we are able to maintain a high rate of social media traffic consistent with our strong product identity and brand loyalty.  _Supergirl_  is one of our two extremely successful LGBT-focused programs, we have  _Flash_  for the somewhat less socially conscious, more generic stories, and  _Arrow_  is currently competing robustly in the gritty action market. When  _Arrow_  ends, we have  _Batwoman and the Birds of Prey_  lined up and ready to go, which we believe will have strong cross-demographic appeal in the feminist, LGBT, and gritty action markets.”   
  
“Right, but getting back to  _Supergirl_ , you’ve already got the sister for the gays, why did you have to make the lead one of those types, too?”   
  
Berlanti audibly barely holds back a scoff and a biting retort. “I invite you to turn to pages 14 through 26, in which I quote and discuss industry analysts who have consistently cited  _Supergirl_ ’s strong performance with socially liberal demographics and weak performance with right-wing demographics, on social media and in viewership, as well as in estimated streaming service viewership. We are simply doubling down on a working scheme, and according to the social media figures our community managers are reporting, it’s working. And quite honestly, there is no longer such a thing as ‘too many’ LGBT characters. We are rapidly moving into a post-heteronormative entertainment space, and the CW brand must be at the forefront of that evolution if we are to maintain our competitive position in the developing media market environment. Our writers must unshackle themselves from old standbys to evolve our developing properties in new and fresh directions; if we do not, our continued market share growth rate is at risk.”   
  
“I think what he’s trying to say, Greg, is that we need to think about our upcoming audiences,” another interchangeable suit interjects. “Today’s teenagers are tomorrow’s young-adult viewers, and concerns have been raised that we may be risking those teenagers’ parents refusing to allow their children access to our product. There have been concerns raised by my fellow executive-level personnel and by our shareholders about this recent pivot.”   
  
“Pages 37 through 46,” I cut in, looking up from my phone. “538 did some research into social attitudes. Turns out the recent surge in right-wing extremism has caused a seismic shift to the left in American politics. Americans are for the first time in a Hell of a long time becoming less racist en masse--apparently, if enough white supremacists try to kill the President, people start to oppose white supremacists. Not to mention, public opinion on LGBT people is shifting rapidly in a positive direction even among older adults, as it has been for years. It hasn’t even been a decade since DADT and DOMA were repealed, and yet the days of the early 2000s where comparing gay people to people who want to fuck animals was  _de rigeur_...well, those days seem downright  _alien_. Statistically speaking, we have more to gain from just getting some LGBT representation out there and fucking going with it.”   
  
The Suit flips grumpily through the hundred-page report (I still don’t know how Berlanti and his staff cooked that up so fast), but concedes. “Alright. Still, the shareholders…”   
  
“...should be impressed with the viewership numbers we’re bringing in,” I cut in. “Even shows like  _Legends of Tomorrow_ , which I have no direct involvement in outside of the crossover, are seeing significant increases in viewership.  _Legends_  has been  _gaining_  viewers at a slow but steady rate with every episode for this past season since the crossover, and kept the majority of its crossover bump, effectively doubling its viewership from the start of the season. If the rate holds, we project that next season will see a premiere boost of several hundred thousand viewers due to off-season hype, and Greg said something about added revenue from the toys.”   
  
“We are as you’re probably aware only a week from closing the Lego deal,” Berlanti explains. The look on the Suit’s face makes it clear he didn’t know that and makes me wonder how the fuck this fucking imbecile became an executive and what exactly he does. “That should gain us significant publicity in foreign and domestic markets, on top of the robust market for novelty funko figurines.” The Arrowverse funko mafia is a thing that exists now, albeit mostly on the internet. We truly live in interesting times. “Quite simply, we have a very strong and increasingly robust product identity and a reliably high level of brand loyalty among our consumers. The President and I believe that this can be maintained indefinitely simply by taking additional steps to embrace that product identity and producing a product that continues to generate sustained spontaneous discussion.”   
  
“I still can’t believe I’m allowed to do this,” I mutter. Vinnie clamps a hand on my shoulder from his place behind me.   
  
“When the Hell--I mean, please elaborate some more on the Lego deal, I wasn’t aware of--that it was so close to closing.” The Suit’s flailing, trying to sound in charge. He isn’t, and everybody can tell.   
  
Berlanti grins like a shark. He has these fuckers right where he wants them. “Of course. As I’ve informed the Board several times over the past few months, the Lego Group has expressed interest in producing a line of licensed toys given the growing popularity of our Arrowverse franchise--I’m still considering alternate names for when we launch the broader cross-franchise brand identity advertising program, by the way--particularly since that popularity is concentrated in valuable demographics. We believe that this will reinforce product identity and improve our product’s appeal to a wider customer base, thus improving market share. If you’ll look at pages 103 through 115, there are a series of proposed toy sets laid out; I’m particularly proud of the toy versions of our core franchises’ ‘base’ sets. Proposed pricings are listed alongside each item.”   
  
The Suits flip through the documents. I sigh, sending out a tweet comparing Putin’s father to the oak bracket fungus. Annoying that asshole just isn’t doing it for me like it used to.   
  
“I believe that this is a workable marketing platform for our product,” a third Suit announces, putting down his copy of the report. “Clearly our trust in you, Mr. Berlanti, and your associate, um, President Trump, was well-placed.”   
  
“But we need to appeal to Trump voters--” the first Suit protests halfheartedly. Berlanti looks at him like he’s something disgusting on his shoe. A fourth Suit scoffs.   
  
“Buddy,  _I’m Donald Trump_ ,” I point out. Well, technically that’s sort of true, anyway. “Trust me. This is the right move.”   
  
“All in favor of continuing to put our trust in Mr. Berlanti’s creative independence?” the third Suit, who I mentally nickname Not A Fucking Cowardly Useless Moron, asks.   
  
About two-thirds of the hands go up.   
  
Berlanti fist-bumps me under the table.   
  
***  
  
 _April 30th._  
  
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter.   
  
“You’ll do fine,” Vinnie assures me. “It’s just a ceremony.”   
  
“Israel was just a fucking ceremony.”   
  
“Yeah, well, the only lethal weapons out there are the reporters’ pens. And my gun. Don’t worry, you’ve got this.”   
  
I nod reluctantly, then straighten my tie. “OK. Let’s get this show on the road.”   
  
I stride out to applause from the assembled schoolkids (some group from Kentucky who went viral for making a sign calling Moscow Mitch McConnell a coward), Bernie Sanders, and that new Representative (Rashida Tlaib, D-MI-13) whose parents are from Palestine. Good crowd. The bill is waiting for me, and I pull a cheap ballpoint out of my pocket to sign.   
  
“I guess ol’ Moscow Mitch McConnell finally folded, huh?” I chuckle for the cameras. “Thank you, Comrade Bernie and Comrade Rashida, for showing up today, and a huge thank you to these great kids for their class’s efforts to bring great American education to Kentucky despite Moscow Mitch’s best efforts! I promise you, America--the Department of Education will move as quickly as possible to ensure that our great nation has the best education system in the world. And I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that our children have the best educations that that great system can give. MAGA Education! MAGA Syndicalism!”   
  
Another round of applause, though the kids start late. I wait for it to peter out.   
  
“Alright. Here we go.” I sign, and the cameras flash as we all pose.   
  
“Great stuff,” I chuckle as I stand, turning to offer my hand to Bernie and Tlaib. “Comrade Bernie, great to have your support.”   
  
“It’s a good plan, Mr. President,” the old man replies, shaking my hand vigorously. “I never thought that  _you’d_  be the one to start a political revolution, but I have to admit, it’s working.”   
  
“Thanks, man. I voted for you, you know? Always next election cycle, though. And proteges to train!”   
  
Bernie chuckles at that. “True. Like Ms. Tlaib here.”   
  
“Absolutely. Comrade Rashida, welcome to the United States government. Hope you last, you seem pretty chill.”   
  
“Uh--thank you, Mr. President? I, uh, wanted to mention, thank you so much for forcing the peace deal in Palestine--”   
  
“No thanks necessary,” I wave her down. “I just got tired of those mofos shooting at each other. Also, Israel was being a bag of hypocritical racists, and fuck racists. Anyway, welcome to the movement, Comrade. Solidarity forever!”   
  
I still can’t believe I forced this past that douchelord McConnell. 


	5. I am not the Chosen One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comrade Donnie starts to crack under the pressure as Moscow Mitch makes a move and Little Volodya plans a bold retaliation.

_May 2nd, 2018._  
  
“Mueller says the guy was running a  _what_?”   
  
“Sex trafficking ring,” Vinnie says. “Apparently a British prince and a French talent scout are involved.”   
  
“Well, damn. Hope all the fuckers enjoy prison for a few decades.”   
  
“Mm-hmm.” Vinnie takes a sip of Dirty Commie Heathen. “This is damn good beer.”   
  
“I know, right? My buddy from my old life recommended it. From North Carolina. This microbrewery he likes.” I tip back my own bottle of Stalin-themed brewski as we watch Wolf Blitzer talk about a pro-treaty rally in Israel. Peaceful this time, Barkat’s got the IDF behind him and the hardliners seem to be quieting down into surly irrelevance bit by bit.   
  
It’s good to just take a break and unwind with my henchman. Even if it has to be in the Situation Room instead of at his place because Mrs. Vinnie is still pissed off about what happened in Jerusalem. At least, Vinnie claims, she’s angry out of worry for me as well as for him this time. We’re still gonna give her a few nice long months to calm down.   
  
“Did Barkat get back to you about Bennett yet?”   
  
“Yeah, Walker told me, Bennett’s all but certain to be convicted. The Palestinians are playing it  _super_  cautious, probably mostly because I still have the nuke threat to hang over their heads.” I take a sip of Dirty Commie Heathen. “Man, I wish they had, I dunno, Dirty Anarchist Heathen or something. Nestor Makhno themed, you know?”   
  
“I’m sure they’ll cook something up if you ask.”   
  
“Point,” I note. “Alright. We’re going to need to push to make social-media companies moderate their platforms better, bring in more immigrants, fix the criminal justice system, and figure out where we’re going from there. Oh, and I gotta tweet nudes of myself.”   
  
Vinnie nearly sprays his Dirty Commie Heathen but manages to hold it back. “ _What the fuck_?”   
  
“You know, for solidarity. Dirtbags regularly try to extort people by threatening to reveal their nudes. Mostly women, actually. Some people, again, mostly women, Tweet their nudes to fuck with the extortionists.” I take another drink. “Might as well do it, right?”   
  
He shakes his head with a chuckle. “Sometimes I forget how  _gleefully_  insane you are, Mr. President.”   
  
“Heh, so do I. Hey, you’re OK with doing this now, right?”   
  
He looks at his beer. “Just let me finish. I’m actually enjoying this beer.”   
  
“Fair enough.” I take another swig. “Oh, and I gotta Tweet. Nearly forgot this part.”   
   
  
  
I slide my phone back into my pocket. “Good times.”   
  
“Hmm.” Vinnie turns up the volume on the TV as Blitzer shifts to a new topic.   
  
“ _...and earlier today, the FBI announced the arrest of five people alleged to be plotting the assassination of President Trump. Two members of a neo-Nazi group calling themselves the ‘Totalenkrieg Division’ who allegedly planned to attack one of the President’s rallies with automatic weapons were taken into custody, as were three members of the Jewish Defense League, a far-right extremist group founded by controversial rabbi Meir Kahane, who authorities allege intended to kill President Trump with an improvised explosive._ ”   
  
“Oh, man, Mueller told me that shit earlier when you were taking a piss,” I remark. “The Nazis said I was ‘controlled by the Jews’ and trying to commit ‘white genocide’ and the Kahanists wanted to kill me for forcing the peace deal. Claimed I was ‘brainwashed and antisemitic’.” I shake my head. “Fuckers. Anyway, the whole thing reminded me of a scumbag I forgot about. I told Mueller to have Comey pick up Robert Bowers before he tries to shoot up a synagogue. Last 2018 a bunch of nice old folks died. This time, well, hopefully nobody dies.” I take a sip of booze and sigh. “I’m fucking tired of this bullshit, Vinnie.”   
  
“I noticed, kid.” He eyes me. “You seem like you’re doing better.”   
  
“I’m getting there,” I admit. “Still a lot of bad dreams. At least I’m not as fucked up as the Green Arrow.”   
  
“Yeah, I’m just gonna pretend like I understood that reference. You still planning on doing Comic-Con again this year?”   
  
“I’ve already blocked out a couple of days in July.”   
  
“I will take this moment to remind you of the security risk.”   
  
“ _Thanks, Mom_.”   
  
He chuckles. “Just try not to get yourself killed. Would be kind of embarrassing, you know.”   
  
“Fair enough, I won’t do anything  _too_  stupid. Speaking of stupid--Annie suggested making someone called Mia Khalifa ambassador to the Saudis, but when I looked her up I found a bunch of porn?”   
  
My henchman shakes his head with a toothy grin. “Yeah, Mia Khalifa was a porn star. Left the business a few years ago. Honestly, I’d say do it, just because it’d be fucking hilarious to send a porn star to Saudi Arabia in your stead.”   
  
“Aren’t you supposed to be a voice of reason for me?”   
  
“Yeah, but the House of Saud are scum. They deserve a little humiliation and tension.”   
  
“Fair. Or I could send Stormy Daniels.”   
  
“Would she even accept? Last I heard she was on to some new movie.”   
  
“What, actor or director?”   
  
“Director, I think. Mobster movie. Something called  _The Godfucker_?”   
  
I snort at that. “Honestly, that sounds kinda awesome.” I lean back as Blitzer introduces a CGI slow-mo recap of the FBI busting down the neo-Nazis’ door. “Hey, should I be jacking it to Old Glory or just standing with the flag when we do the photos?”   
  
“I am  _not_  taking pictures of you touching yourself, kid.”   
  
“Yeah, fair, it’s super awkward anyway.” I shake my head. “Random neuron fire,” a hazard of ADHD, "remind me to make all the bathrooms in this joint gender-neutral.”   
  
“You got it.”   
  
***  
  
“ _Fuck me. Fuck my life. How the Hell am I even supposed to mock him? He posted goddamn nudes, he posted his goddamn nudes on goddamn Twitter_!”   
  
“ _The thing is...I sort of see his point_.”   
  
“ _Yeah, you can see_ everything _including his shriveled dick and the hammer and sickle painted on his ass. What I’m trying to figure out is_ how to create material _based on this._ ”   
  
“ _Maybe just drop the comedy and talk seriously for a few minutes?_ ”   
  
“ _That works great for you, John, but that could wreck my patter. God damn it, maybe I’ll just joke about Pence. Take on the easy target_.”   
  
“ _It’s not that bad, Stephen. Besides, going after Pence is sophomoric, the President already does it and there’s so little you can do with it. C’mon, maybe the challenge of ribbing Trump will be good for you._ ”   
  
\--Exchange over drinks between Stephen Colbert and John Oliver, May 2nd, 2018.   
  
***  
  
_May 4th._  
  
“Afternoon, folks,” I say as I shuffle some papers on my lectern with one gloved hand. “May the 4th be with you!” I raise my lightsaber, and do my best menacing breath. The cameras flash.   
  
“Thanks to my awesome admin, Annie, and her minions of course, for this kickass Vader costume!” I announce as I shuck my helmet, giving Annie a thumbs-up. She returns it with a little grin. It  _is_  a kickass costume. “Alright. So, uh, I’m here today with my bro Paul Krugman here,” I pull the Secretary of the Treasury forwards by one arm as he shoots a nervous glance at the flunkies along the back wall, “because I literally didn’t tell him this yet and you all need to hear it too. Hail Satan!”   
  
“Please don’t ask me to speed up the $20 bill exchange, it’s going as fast as we can make it go,” Krugman hisses.   
  
“Don’t worry, man, I know what I’m doing. Vinnie, you got the--thanks.” I take the executive order form and a cheap ballpoint. “OK. Because our First Amendment is glorious and must be protected at all costs, I’m taking that lame-ass ‘in god we trust’ motto off of our money, in order to facilitate the removal of the pernicious influence of religion from our government, in accordance with the separation of church and state espoused by our Constitution. From now on, the words that accompany  _E Pluribus Unum_  will be  _Semper Liberi, Semper Aequalis_. Always Free, Always Equal. Words that define this great nation. MAGA Freedom, MAGA Equality, all hail the First Amendment, all hail freedom of religion!” I sign, and hand it to Krugman. “Can you get that done, Paul?”   
  
He blinks, shakes his head to clear it, and clears his throat. “Uh, yes. I’ll...get right to work on this. It’ll take  _time_ , Mr. President…”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, you take care of it, Paul, I trust you. Hey, fuck Doug Coe, eh? Hope he’s enjoying Hell.”   
  
“...who the Hell is Doug Coe?” Krugman asks in confusion.   
  
“This fucked-up fundamentalist shithead who dedicated his life to destroying the separation of church and state that defines our fantastic country. That National Prayer Breakfast I ignored these past couple of years, that’s his work. He wanted to destroy America and replace the Constitution with a theocratic Jesus-flavored Taliban regime.” As I hoped, the mic catches it. I blithely continue with a cheerful grin. “So, fuck that guy, I’m going to re-separate church and state by force. I love Lady Liberty and our bigly awesome Constitution, so I’m getting the Christofascist bullshit out of our government for the glory of the Bill of Rights. MAGA Liberty, you know?”   
  
“Uh, you’re on mic--”   
  
“Yeah, I know, when that scumbag Pence hears this it’ll piss him off, so it’s fine. Fuck Mike Pence, by the way.” I wink at the cameras. “Comrades, we must work to be a nation that accepts all faiths. Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Taoists--do they count as a religion?--Yazidis, Druze, Satanists, atheists, people who follow Native indigenous religions, whatever. Believe what you will, as long as you don’t force someone else to follow that religion, too. I may not be the Chosen One, but I believe that I have a duty to this country to make sure that all faiths in our great nation are equal before the law in every way. Because this is  ** _AMERICA_** , and WE!  _ARE_!  ** _EQUAL_**!”   
  
The flunkies behind me salute crisply as ordered. “MAGA LIBERTY!” they thunder. “MAGA AMERICA!”   
  
This sure oughta piss off Pence.   
  
***  
  
_May 5th_.   
  
“ _...and this President, this un-Christian, **blasphemous**  excuse for an American, wants to take God Himself out of our government! This is America, the shining city on a hill, and we are a Christian nation, by God!_”   
  
“ _But doesn’t the First Amendment specifically forbid the establishment of an official religion?_ ”   
  
“ _Religious freedom demands that our government represent the faith of true Americans--that of Jesus Christ and our Creator. Trump’s Satanic antics are nothing short of active demonic influence, seeking to subvert and destroy this great Christian nation…_ ”   
  
“ _Mr. Vice-President, are you suggesting that the President is literally acting on malevolent supernatural advice?_ ”   
  
“ _HE IS THE TOOL OF THE DEVIL AND I WILL STOP AT NOTHING TO SEE OUR HOLY NATION PROTECTED FROM HIS DEMONIC COMMUNIST SORCERY!_ ”   
  
\--Mike Pence and Chris Matthews, _Hardball with Chris Matthews_ , May 5th, 2018.   
  
***  
  
_May 9th. New Delhi, India._  
  
Modi shakes my hand with an expansive grin the moment I step off Air Force One, and I return it with the firmest grip I can muster. Still don’t know what to make of this guy. “Mr. President,” the Indian leader says for the cameras. “Welcome to India!” His accent is heavy, might even be a bit affected, hard to tell really.   
  
“Pleasure to be here, you’ve got a lovely country. Also, I’m sorry for that bullshit Union Carbide pulled in Bhopal in ‘84. Criminal incompetence and as clear an example as any for why we need to rein in corrupt multinational megacorps! The corpos are scum, exploiting our great nations.”   
  
Modi’s smile becomes more obviously forced as he struggles to keep the surprise down, but he nods along. “Ah, thank you for the...unexpected but, uh, welcome apology, Mr. President. Come! You must be hungry--do you like rajma?”   
  
“Beans disagree with me, but there’s nothing like a good dish of Indian-style spicy rice, especially if you guys mix in a few pine nuts.” The menu for this visit was settled a week ago, but both of us want some cheap points for the cameras.   
  
“I think that can be arranged,” Modi grins as he escorts me to the car. “Furthermore, although I have already issued my formal condolences, please allow me to express my sorrow for the events in Jerusalem six weeks ago.”   
  
“Yeah, that was a mess and a half. Thanks for the condolences.” We stop and wave for a bank of cameras as they line up. “Still a bit shell-shocked.”   
  
“My sympathies,” Modi repeats.   
  
“Thanks.” Not much more to be said on that front.   
  
***  
  
_May 10th._  
  
We have a joint speech in the morning, Modi and me. It’s supposed to be boilerplate. Generic messages of friendship and all that.   
  
Yeah, fuck that, I’m Comrade Donnie. I just don’t  _do_  boilerplate.   
  
“Hello, India!” I begin. “Lovely country you got here, Narendra. Beautiful country, so much history, just gorgeous. And some great people, too. Sharukh Khan is a fantastic actor, should be in Hollywood to get himself an Oscar cabinet.   
  
“Anyway, this is a great country, just like mine, and I really like how you’ve been trying to root out corruption and drag this joint kicking and screaming into the modern era, Narendra. Granted, there have been some oversights, like the way you keep dancing around the sexism of Hindu religious law, like that whole thing about women inheriting half of what men do, what’s up with that? But what I really want to take you to task for is the Hindu nationalism. And look, I get it, everybody pulls that card on you, and it’s not like the INC are  _genuinely_  interested in a multi-religious society, just in power to be abused, but dude, if you had competent opposition, you’d be in deep shit. Religious nationalism isn’t just dangerous and stupid, man, it’s letting the British win. Not the modern, apologetic Brits, the OG, 19th century, douchebag Brits who beat the shit out of India over and over and caused massive ethnoreligious strife as part of the old divide and conquer strategy.   
  
“Every time a Hindu beats up a Muslim, an imperialist makes a buck. Every time a leader--even a guy who’s done legit good like Narendra here--does something blatantly biased against one religion or another, like that time Narendra let a pogrom happen on his watch in Gujarat, and don’t deny it, Narendra, we both know it’s true, an imperialist buys a superyacht to laugh at the proles from. Every time someone says that India is a Hindu nation, Mahatma Gandhi rolls over in his grave, because you’re playing right into the old divide-and-conquer routine that let foreigners run your country! Don’t be a dick. Remember that if your Muslim neighbor didn’t love India, he’d probably move to Pakistan.   
  
“Now, I get that you guys need something to truly unite all of the peoples of this great nation. And don’t get me wrong, Narendra here’s doing some great work at fixing the income gap and corruption problems, and I’ll gladly help you guys out with bringing the rich to justice and lifting the proletariat out of poverty, and to be honest, Narendra and the BJP have done a decent job on affirmative action for disadvantaged varnas and avarnas, but you need something other than religion and the rivalry with Pakistan. All that does is risk war and hurt a bunch of innocent people.   
  
“The answer, I believe, is Syndicalism. This is something that I think, Narendra, your guys have already made some great strides towards! Whatever else can be said about your party, the BJP has been great about public engagement in politics, encouraging democracy, and stuff like that, but it goes beyond just townhall democracy, councilism, and clean elections. You gotta break the back of the upper class, level the income gap, and institute workplace democracy to end the inequality that breeds corruption. Because the vast majority of those with wealth and power will use that wealth and power to secure their position by any means necessary--corruption, vote-rigging, whatever. By ensuring a more equal distribution of wealth and simultaneously enforcing clean democracy from the lowest to the highest levels, with universal and equal adult suffrage, and by improving communications and transportation infrastructure--which I’m more than happy to help build, by the way--I believe that India can be made into one of the greatest nations on this planet, and will take its rightful place beside the United States as one of this world’s preeminent superpowers.   
  
“We will make India great again. We will Make the  _WORLD_  Great Again!!!” I turn to Modi and salute crisply, back ramrod straight. “MAGA India! MAGA Revolution! MAGA Socialism!”   
  
Modi stares at me with one eyebrow raised for a full ten seconds, the cameras flashing. Then he clears his throat. “Mr. President…”   
  
“Please, call me Donnie, all my friends do and I want this to be a productive, friendly relationship.”   
  
“... _Donnie_ ,” he allows. “While I object to your characterization of my handling of the unfortunate intercommunal violence in Gujarat sixteen years ago, I do appreciate your offer of friendship. However, I feel that you are lacking in information about certain political situations within my nation, and I think that we will disagree on certain fundamental issues of economic policy.”   
  
“I’m aware of the Naxalite movement in the east,” I counter. “I think that to eliminate corruption, India needs more grass-roots political involvement. Your party’s RSS group is at least getting the proletariat involved, though I’m disturbed by the Hindu nationalist elements of its activity. I also like your efforts to improve women’s rights, though you could take a stronger stance on sexist Hindu traditions like women not inheriting as much as men and stuff like that. I’m offering all the support of the USA in improving the status of the People and women of India, and some comradely support in getting the income inequality fixed. You know, just to get you guys over the hump so it gets easier.”   
  
“I think that there is progress still to be made, yes,” Modi allows, “and I agree that greater political engagement by the people is good. However, I think that we will continue to disagree on the viability of socialism to bring further progress to India, and I am a little confused by why you are offering so many criticisms and offers at what is supposed to be a friendship speech, Mr. Pres--ah, Donnie.”   
  
I shrug. “I want India to be great, Narendra. I want the world to be led by friendly, peaceful democracies that help each other through rough times and see to the needs of their People. Now, I’ve got a massive labor pool in my  _Work For America_  program, and I’m more than happy to divert some of that manpower to the Peace Corps to fly over here and start building roads and power lines and toilets and shit. You’ve made truly incredible efforts already, but I want to help you redouble them. I have a vision of the future, Narendra--a future where the United States of America and the Republic of India stand side by side, two shining nations at the forefront of technology, full of happy, healthy people, clean cities, stable democracy, and stable wilderness to support the wildlife that is the national heritage of our People.   
  
“C’mon, Narendra. When Indira Gandhi shat on human rights, you stood up to her.  _You_  proved yourself a man of the people, and stood up for their rights even as India hung on the precipice of totalitarianism. So how about you stop the low-key Islamophobia and we be friends?”   
  
His eyes glitter with anger from my Islamophobia comment, but he offers a polite smile. “I appreciate the offer of infrastructural aid. Perhaps we can negotiate a deal; India has a number of powerful industries that could offer our products to your great nation, and I believe that we have similar interests in the south-east of Asia. Surely there is an equitable accord to be reached?”   
  
“Yeah, that sounds good. Maybe we can share advice on economics? I think we’ve both had experience fighting the super-rich, the plutocratic fucks who bribe their way into power and strangle our nations and their democracy from the top like a grasping octopus. I get that you’re more of a self-made man type and I’m an anarcho-syndicalist iconoclast, but I think we can both agree that monopolies and corrupt corporate dynasties are bad. And I wanted to talk about Jammu and Kashmir, and the ethnic cleansing the Kashmiri regional government did a couple decades back, how we can get people some justice for that. Talk about it over some tea?”   
  
“That sounds excellent,” Modi replies with a broad grin. “Darjeeling?”   
  
“I’m more of an Earl Grey fan myself,” I admit. “You know, Captain Picard, ‘Tea, Earl Grey, hot’. Love me some  _Star Trek_ , you know. A future without racism and hatred where people are nice and everybody’s free and equal.”   
  
“A noble ideal,” Modi agrees. He turns back to the reporters. “Ah, I have a few words to say as well…to begin with, let me formally welcome my esteemed colleague, President Trump, to the great nation of India. I hope that the relations between our mighty nations remain friendly and based in a spirit of mutual respect...”   
  
His speech is more boilerplate, but he seems to be in a more conciliatory mood as it goes on. Hopefully I can leverage him on social and environmental policy while making friends.   
  
***  
  
_May 13th._  
  
“How was India?” Fatima asks as I walk into my office.   
  
“Mixed bag.” I yank my tie off and fling it at a spare chair in frustration. “Modi’s a tough nut to crack. He’s got fire inside, though. Guy wouldn’t budge on workplace democracy, and it took a lot of arguing to wheedle agreement out of him to let unions flex their power more. But he caved on the inheritance custom, eventually.”   
  
“That’s because a couple of celebrities jumped on your bandwagon and the BJP’s having a minor crisis over you accusing Hindu nationalists of aiding imperialism,” Annie says from beside my desk, where she’s tapping at her phone. “Priyanka Chopra, Sharukh Khan, and a cricketer called Kohli.” Fatima huffs as she grabs the tie and goes to put it back around my neck.   
  
“Well, that’s good. Ia--Donnie, you’re still on the clock.”   
  
“ _Fuck_  the clock, I just got off a goddamn flight from halfway around the world,” I protest.   
  
“Twenty more minutes and you can hit the sack,” Annie says, not looking up from her phone.   
  
“ _Fine_ ,” I grouse, letting Fatima put my tie back on. “I’m gonna need to get a foreign aid package through Congress. Big thing for India, lot of infrastructure aid, healthcare stuff. See if we can’t fuse it with the Africa package, and hike the supports for Botswana while we’re at it.”   
  
“On it. I’ll talk to Schumer and Pelosi about it.”   
  
“Thanks. Hey, you ever want to be chief of staff?”   
  
She snorts. “You already pay me twice what one of those makes.”   
  
“Fair enough.” Fatima steps away, and I smile at her. “Thanks, Fatima, you’re the best.”   
  
“I know,” she chuckles.   
  
“Also, Annie, you know how I was considering adopting a Syrian refugee kid? Put my money where my mouth is, kinda thing?”   
  
“I did cursory investigation. Do you want to go forwards?”   
  
“Seriously thinking about it. Just worried that I’m a crap parent, you know?”   
  
“Being your child can’t possibly be worse than being an orphaned refugee,” Fatima points out.   
  
“Yeah, and you turned Barron into a math nerd by teaching him D&D,” Vinnie comments from behind me. “I say go for it.”   
  
“...yeah, what the hell, I’ve done crazier things.” I nod to Annie as she looks up. “Get the ball rolling.”   
  
“Will do, sir.”   
  
My god, I’m a fucking nut. And I’m starting to like it.   
  
***  
  
_May 15th._  
  
“How do I look?” I ask Fatima, wiping the crumbs from my breakfast scone from my mouth.   
  
“Very Comradely,” she replies with a grin, reaching out to straighten my collar. Today I’m in a black and red suit, garishly bisected diagonally across my body. All the anarcho-socialism my minions can handle, heh. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”   
  
“You got it. Hey, uh--you’re OK with us, you know, being...not a thing, for now?”   
  
“Whatever works for you,” she assures me. “Now focus! This one has to be really convincing.”   
  
“On it.” I suck in a breath, tug at my suit, and exhale, then turn to Vinnie with a nod. “Let’s do this.”   
  
The theme song of the day plays as I stride out. I picked this one because my boy Nestor Makhno wrote it while he was busy fighting for freedom in Ukraine (and getting backstabbed by the Bolsheviks).   
  
_Koni vorsty rvut namotom,  
Nam svoboda doroga,  
Cherez prorez' pulemota  
Ya ishchu v stepi vraga.  
Anarkhiya-mama synov svoikh lyubit,  
Anarkhiya-mama ne prodast,  
Svintsovym dozhdom vraga prigolubit,  
Anarkhiya-mama za nas!  
  
Zastrochu ognom kinzhal'nym,  
Kak poblizhe podpushchu.  
Nichego v boyu ne zhal' mne,  
Ni o chom ya ne grushchu.  
Anarkhiya-mama synov svoikh lyubit,  
Anarkhiya-mama ne prodast,  
Svintsovym dozhdom vraga prigolubit,  
Anarkhiya-mama za nas!  
  
Tol'ko raduyus' uboynoy  
Sile moyego druzhka.  
Videt' ya mogu spokoyno  
Tol'ko mortvogo vraga.  
Anarkhiya-mama synov svoikh lyubit,  
Anarkhiya-mama ne prodast,  
Svintsovym dozhdom vraga prigolubit,  
Anarkhiya-mama za nas!_  
  
  
  
“ANARKHIYA-MAMA ZA NAS!” I shout as the song finishes. “WHOO! Good song, that one--Nestor Makhno wrote it while he was fighting for freedom in Ukraine. Before Moscow backstabbed him, anyway.   
  
“So, we’re here today to discuss the future of America! Our manufacturing was the best in the world, but the corrupt Reagan administration, the ‘free trade’ corporate pandering of Bush and Clinton, and the abusive outsourcing practices of despicable multinational megacorps have ruined our America’s economic base, kept us hooked on fossil fuels so the corpos can destroy the planet for a buck, and otherwise screwed over the American worker for the sake of some fat-cat scum’s profits. Why do you think the Koch brothers work so damn hard and spend so much money supporting the Republicans? It’s because the rat finks want pliable puppets in Congress to let them abuse their workers more and more and outsource jobs to China because the Chinese government is a hypocritical sack of shit that claims to stand for the People while depriving the workers of their rights!   
  
“Well, MAGA Syndicalists across America, UNITE! For we have nothing to lose but our chains, and I know how we can revitalize our industry and secure our future by running at the forefront of technology! With the help of my allies in Congress, I will be using the kickass new federal budget I have to work with to give start-up loans to a series of worker-run renewable-energy cooperatives, with which we will Make Our Heartland Great Again, bringing new jobs for our unionized workers, so many new jobs, seriously people, we’re going to have so many new jobs we’re going to need to import refugees to do some of the jobs! We will build the biggest, the best solar panel and windmill factories, we will make the greatest electric cars and charging stations, we will lead the world into the future  _and we will sell the future to the Chinese_! Saving the planet  _and_  making money, that’s how we will roll!   
  
“Now, People of America, once more I, Comrade Donnie, figurehead of this great movement, call on you for help! Our new socialist future cannot come about without mass action!  _WE_  have the power!  _WE_  are the pillar of this great democracy! I need you to get on your phones again, folks! Call your Senator! Call your Congresscritter! Call them and browbeat the motherfuckers into submission! Make ‘em work for you!  _WE ARE AMERICA_! For a nation is nothing without the People! And every two years,  _we make Congress our bitch_! So they’d  _better_  fucking do what you say, if they want to keep their jobs! MAGA FREEDOM!  ** _MAGA DEMOCRACY_**!”   
  
I pause for breath, and grab a quick drink of water. “Why renewables? Well, lemme put it this way. Global warming is real. Why do we have so many bad hurricanes these days? Global warming. Hurricane Harvey hit Texas because of global warming. Katrina was just a warning sign, Irene and Sandy were the first signs of a new breed of superstorms fueled by our gas-guzzling Hummers.   
  
“Going forward, we need to take the fight to global warming. We need to get our coal miners out of the mines before they develop black lung from that cheapskate Bob Murray’s insufficient safety measures, and get them working on  _building_  stuff for our future. We need to get Americans out of Hummers and monster trucks and into hybrids and public transit. We need more solar, wind, biofuels, whatever it takes to protect our planet. Because I dunno about you, but I don’t want to see Texas underwater! Texas is great! Hot, stolen from Mexico, but  _man_ , the birds you can see there--Texas rocks.   
  
“So I believe that the US of fuckin’ A can become a leader in clean energy in as few as ten years! What we need is a concerted effort to become the best and the biggest manufacturer of green tech on this planet--which by the way is the only one we get, we don’t have the capability to evacuate the planet and we don’t have another place to land if we fuck it up. This plan will restore jobs, worker-owned jobs that can’t be ‘outsourced’ to China by greedy corpo scum, to our heartland, and will restore our economy’s future to greatness! MAGA Socialism!   
  
“Now get to your phones, folks!” I throw my arms dramatically into the air and cackle like a madman. “Time for Moscow Mitch to  _EMBRACE DEMOCRACY_!”   
  
The shocked response is tepid and barely even a thing this time. Damn, they must be getting used to me.   
  
***  
  
_May 16th._  
  
“ _Hello_?”   
  
“Hey, Greg, sorry for the rando mid-week call, but you’ve got the crossover stuff in motion, right?” I’m a little short of breath from my fast walk--damn Trump’s broken-down mess of a body and damn his hedonistic lifestyle--but at least I’m comprehensible.   
  
_“That I do, Donnie, I just got out of a meeting with Costuming and I’m just headed to lunch right now. You need anything_?”   
  
“Other than my usual encouragement to make it gay as fuck, did you and Leigh agree on having her in that lawyer outfit you were talking about?”   
  
“ _Yeah, she agreed pretty quick. I think we can really capitalize on frustrated LGBT youth markets even more than we already are_.”   
  
“Hey, whatever gets us ratings, amirite? Listen, can you get Ruby Rose to sign a photo for me? Make that two photos, I need to send one to a friend from my old life and I want one for my collection.”   
  
“ _You got it_.”   
  
“Thanks, Greg, you’re a bro. I gotta go, gonna browbeat Moscow Mitch.”   
  
“ _Good luck, Comrade Donnie_.”   
  
“You too, Comrade Berlanti. MAGA Syndicalism!” I hang up and nod to Vinnie. “Let’s do this.”   
  
He reaches out and straightens my collar. “Let’s.”   
  
“Thanks, Vinnie, you’re a bro.”   
  
I slam the door open dramatically, striding into the Oval Office with a nasty grin. “Well, well, well, look who it is--Moscow Mitch McConnell, gracing my bachelor pad.”   
  
“ _Trump_ ,” the Senate majority leader snarls. “You’ve got nerve, calling me  _Moscow Mitch_.”   
  
“Yeah, you’re your constituents’ bitch. How’re those reelection odds looking, huh?”   
  
He scowls. “Go to Hell.”   
  
I take a seat behind the Resolute Desk, grabbing a beer from my minifridge and popping the cap with my teeth. “Already there.” I take a swig of Dirty Commie Heathen--jesus, I didn’t used to like stouts. Didn’t used to like beer at all. “Lemme put it this way, Mitch--the People of America are on my side, not yours. You want me to encourage another strike? How long was Frankfort basically locked down by those teachers, huh?”   
  
“I’m Senate majority leader, you backstabbing sack of shit,” the turtle-faced bastard spits, his pudgy old face twisted into a horrifying scowl. “You might’ve turned Murkowski and browbeaten Manchin into obedience, but I’ve got control over your judicial appointments. And I bet you that the American people won’t be too happy when my party refuses to pass a single nominee you put up. If you put up crazies, well, that’s just you ceding the advantage.”   
  
“So you finally found your balls,” I chuckle. “Where were they? The Kremlin’s basement?”   
  
“If you’re just gonna insult me…”   
  
“In case you haven’t noticed yet, jackass, insulting you is one of my favorite pasttimes after harassing Vlad and making  _Supergirl_  gay again.” I take another swig of booze. “What’s your play?”   
  
“You moderate your tax policy and drop the socialism crap or I kill your prison reform stone dead  _and_  any treaties you bring home.”   
  
“Too late on the Israel-Palestine one,” I note. “Not to mention my tax bill.”   
  
He grimaces. “Murkowski’s going to learn the price of treachery, too. But here’s how it’s going to work, you fat orange waste of space. I’ll write next year’s budget, and the tax rates are going back down. You shut down that ridiculous work-release program and stop trying to build solar-panel factories in the Midwest. And--”   
  
I laugh in his face. “No deal, bitch. Have you seen the numbers on the capital-gains tax? Not to mention the  _Work For America_  program? Turns out the People really like a reboot of the New Deal on steroids. And socialism? That’s just my tagline right now, I haven’t even launched a push for workplace democracy and councilism yet. Wait until you see what  _real_  socialism is, Moscow Mitch.”   
  
“ _I am the Senate_!” McConnell snarls. “You don’t have the  _power_  to fuck with me, boy!”   
  
I put down the beer and lean forwards. “Quoting Palpatine at me? Cute.” I bare my teeth in a rictus grin. “I already fucking died once, Mitch. Been nearly killed three times in a year. Watched Vladimir Putin shit himself in front of me. Saw a guy get shot, been in a car bombing, shit like that.   
  
“You can’t  _intimidate_  me, Moscow Mitch. I have millions of followers who’ll do anything for me, I’ve seen things Humans never really evolved healthy coping methods for, I’m literally a ghost zombie, I’ve started drinking probably more than I should, all kinds of shit. If you try this, I will  _personally_  endorse your opponent and stump for ‘em in every single town in Kentucky. I will blow my entire fortune on attack ads, Mitch. My army of fans already chants ‘Moscow Mitch is our bitch’ every time I show up somewhere to talk, what makes your cracker ass think you can beat me at the PR game, you turtle-faced baboon?’   
  
McConnell grinds his yellow teeth with rage. “Fuck you.”   
  
“No thanks, you’re not my type.” I finish my beer and reach into the minifridge for another, but Vinnie clamps a hand on my shoulder, his other hand held behind his back, and I settle back into my swivel chair with a groan. “Look, Mitch, just make it easy on yourself. Do what the People want.”   
  
“I have donors to worry about. Let’s get real here, you orange idiot. All your fans? They’re poor and stupid, and I like ‘em that way. Do you have any fucking idea how hard it is to manipulate intelligent, educated people? Besides, every society needs an underclass, it’s just natural. What you’re doing is going to destroy our America, for the sake of a bunch of spoiled Negro college brats and inbred redneck hicks from Backwoodsistan. And you know what? All my corporate donors, that you hate so damn much? They’ll just move the jobs overseas anyway. After all, why bother with angry union men when you can just outsource and take advantage of the coolies in the People’s Republic?”   
  
My eyebrows are trying to escape Trump’s face. “... _Wow_ ,” I manage after a few moments. “You really are that cartoonishly evil, aren’t you?”   
  
“I’ve been playing this game a Hell of a lot longer than you have, Trump,” the turtle-faced bastard snarls. “All those gullible sisterfuckers that like you right now, they’ll turn on a dime as soon as my donors pay off the megachurches to condemn you as a Satanic communist. Hell, I know you’re pro-abortion, what do you think Jim Bob Dumbass from Hillbilly, Georgia’s gonna think when he hears about that? Maybe on some nice big billboards with pictures of bloody babies?”   
  
I shrug. “This is still technically a democracy, despite all the damage you and your corporate owners’ve done to it. If I lose, I’ll take my licks standing up. Power to the People, bitch. Now get the Hell out of my office, Moscow Mitch.”   
  
“You’re making a grave mistake,” the Senator hisses. “We already have three prospective candidates working to take you down--”   
  
“I don’t fucking care, Mitch. Go ahead and blow your war chest on billboards and stuffed shirts, I’ll counter with my own agitprop. Let America decide. Now fuck off.”   
  
He storms out, slamming the door behind him. I lean back in my chair, letting out a huff of breath. “You think he’s serious, Vinnie?”   
  
My henchman shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Not after what he just said.”   
  
“Shit, I should’ve gone for my phone,” I mutter. “If we could’ve recorded that…”   
  
Vinnie holds out his phone, and taps the Play button on a video he’s got up.   
  
“ _All your fans? They’re poor and stupid, and I like ‘em that way,_ ” says McConnell’s tinny voice through the little speaker, the shaky video showing the wall and window behind my seat. Vinnie hits Pause.   
  
My lips split into a feral grin. “ _No fucking way_.”   
  
Vinnie’s grin answers me. “Set it to record when you went for more booze. McConnell was looking at you for slip-ups.”   
  
“Fucking hell, Vinnie! Jesus, man, you deserve another raise!”   
  
“Give Natalie that tour you keep talking about of the natural history museum, and we’re even.”   
  
“C’mon, man, that was pro bono.”   
  
“Yeah, well, I like you, kid. And you’re already paying through the nose for me.”   
  
“Point.” I shake my head, and press the intercom button. “Annie? I’ve got something for you, I think we just got Moscow Mitch dead to rights.”   
  
***  
  
_May 19th. Arkhangelsk, Russian Federation._  
  
Igor Olegovich Kostyukov, freshly-appointed chief of the GRU, shivered as he stepped from the Lada behind that of his  _Vozhd_. And it wasn’t just because it was frigid even in May this far north.   
  
“You, Vice Admiral!” snapped said  _Vozhd_ , eyes sunken and surrounded by shadowed bags that were the price of Vladimir Putin’s rage-fueled sleepless nights. “Get over here, now!”   
  
“ _Da, Vozhd_!” Kostyukov confirmed, sweating despite the cold as he trotted over to his leader. Putin and his guards led Kostyukov into a nondescript Brezhnev-era concrete building, and the central heating definitely didn’t help the intel chief’s little perspiration problem.   
  
The scientists were already seated as Putin strode in, Kostyukov trying not to follow in  _too_  much of a scurry. The men were all already sweating bullets, but one man retained the courage to stand in the face of the  _Vozhd_.   
  
“Great President Putin, although progress continues at a satisfactory rate, I must in good conscience state that the  _Burevestnik_  is not ready for another test--”   
  
“Sit him down and shut him up,” Putin snapped, and Kostyukov drew his pistol mostly on instinct, as did several of the bodyguards. The scientist went pale, but retained the fortitude to sit with dignity, as the other men tried to look as small as possible to avoid notice.   
  
Putin crossed his arms with a scowl, standing behind the chair that had been provided for him as the scientists sat, sweating. Kostyukov felt a trickle of perspiration run down his back, and ruthlessly crushed any impulse to move. Finally, Putin spoke, though it was really more of a hiss.   
  
“Your progress is  _not_  satisfactory, gentlemen,” Putin snarled. “I have been humiliated by that bastard Trump time and time again! Now he appoints himself great peacemaker, when he  _should_  be trembling in fear of the power of Mother Russia.  _This is intolerable_ , gentlemen. And it remains my firm belief that the  _Burevestnik_  is the best way to recoup this insult. But my patience _is not limited_ , and I demand certain results. I want my nuclear-powered missile, you useless apes, and I want it  _fast_!”  
  
“As...as I said, sir, it is simply not ready,” the brave scientist stammered. “It requires months of modeling before we can do another practical test, and even then there are  _tremendous_  risks…”   
  
“Oh, then I suppose that I am simply not ready to assure the safety of your families,” Putin snarled. He snapped his fingers to Kostyukov, who stepped forward on pure instinct. “It will require months of processing to ensure that they are not security risks, and even then there are certain unavoidable suspicions. Aren’t there, Vice Admiral?”   
  
“ _Da, Vozhd_ ,” Kostyukov replied, voice as even as he could manage.   
  
“ _Slavniy Vozhd_ , there is only so much that we can  _do_ ,” the lead scientist implored. “And if the weapon detonates prematurely, or its engine melts down in flight, the humiliation to the Motherland will be beyond anything Trump could do, to say nothing of the potential casualties, risk of economic sanctions, and environmental impact. We simply need more time--”   
  
“ _NYET_!” Putin howled, his fists slamming into the table hard enough to split the skin on his knuckles. “I WANT MY NUCLEAR-POWERED MISSILE! I  _need_  this strategic advantage and I need it  _immediately_! Defy me again and you will regret it!”   
  
The lead scientist gulped, sweat running down his temple, and looked back and forth at his cowering colleagues. He stood slowly, sucking in a breath that the held instead of releasing. “ _Vozhd_  Putin, there is simply no way around the requirements of safety and rigorous testing. We must have at least eighteen more months, preferably two years. I am sorry,  _slavniy Vozhd_ , but I cannot in good conscience risk the future of Russia by being too hasty with so critical a national-security project.”   
  
He shook as Putin stared him down, the leader of Russia huffing harsh breaths of rage as he glared at the sweating scientist, the other civilians leaning as far away from the standing man as they could. Finally, Putin’s right arm rose, slowly, shaking with the dictator’s rage.   
  
“Kostyukov, shoot this idiot.”   
  
Kostyukov obeyed before his conscious brain fully processed the order. Blood, brain bits, and chips of bone spattered the sitting men, who jumped in place as the lead scientist collapsed backwards, a ragged hole in his forehead. The intel chief’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, and his arm shook just a little as he slowly returned his gun to its holster.   
  
“Who is next most senior?” Putin snarled. After a brief scuffle, one of the men was identified and pushed to stand. He shook in place, a rank smell wafting up as a stain spread across his pants.   
  
“I...I am second lead engineer,” the man quavered.   
  
“Congratulations on your promotion, senior first lead engineer,” Putin snapped. “I want my missile ready for final testing by the new year.”   
  
The new chief scientist shuddered, licking his lips as tears began to join the sweat on his face. He swayed in place, but managed to stammer out a response. “I...I will see it done, sir! Ah, glorious leader.”   
  
“Make sure you do, for your own sake,” Putin growled. He turned, grabbing his coat from a minion and gesturing to Kostyukov. “I want to tour the facility to determine how such a wasteful delay could occur. Vice Admiral, with me!”   
  
“ _Da, Vozhd_ ,” Kostyukov replied automatically. He licked his lips nervously as he fell into line; Vladimir had always been an ambitious prick even by KGB standards back in the day, but ever since he’d taken laxatives meant for Trump during a failed attempt to humiliate the American leader, Putin had been increasingly hazardous to deal with.  _God help me, I don’t want to end up like Igor Korobov._  
  
“I want to attack Trump on every front,” Putin snarled, causing Kostyukov to jump at the sudden speech before catching himself and marching alongside his leader. “Get Operation Stalin going; the bastard likes Finland, so fuck up Finland.”   
  
“ _Vozhd_ , I am already moving  _Spetsnatz_  into place, but it will take--” Kostyukov cut himself off. Putin half-turned to glare at him. “I’ll give the necessary orders immediately,” the toady corrected with a greasy grin.   
  
“See that you do,” Putin snapped. “And release the  _Kompromat_  on the National Enquirer connection, while you’re at it. Now get moving, I have to deal with Berdimuhamadov in three hours.”   
  
“ _D-da, Vozhd_ ,” Kostyukov stammered.  _Oh god. I’m fucking dead._  
  
***  
  
**_The New York Times_  headlines, May 20th, 2018  
  
SENATE MAJORITY LEADER CALLS SUPPORTERS ‘INBRED HICKS’**  
  
_Recording provided to the Times appears to show Senator McConnell (R-KY) insulting voters as ‘poor and stupid’, ‘sister-fuckers’._  
  
**McConnell in hot water after comments**  
  
_Senator condemns anonymous leaker as a “traitor” and demands investigation._  
  
**President Trump condemns McConnell**  
  
_‘I know I’m a rude dick, but he went a step too far’, says Trump_  
  
**Brexit ‘to be revisited with a radical new solution’ within one week, says Corbyn**  
  
_British government in crisis as deadlines loom_  
  
**Page 17  
  
Pre-election, Trump paid off Playboy model to keep her silence**  
  
_Karen McDougall confirms information leaked last night by GRU-linked Facebook account, says ‘I don’t know who the guy in the White House is, but he’s not the Donald Trump I knew’._  
  
**Will we ever know what caused Trump’s change?**  
  
_Fully explaining the shift may be impossible, but it likely goes beyond mere method acting._  
  
***  
  
**_Redneck Revolt_  mass email, May 20th, 2018**  
  
**STAND WITH COMRADE DONNIE AGAINST CORPORATE-OWNED SCUMBAG!**  
  
_Corrupt Senator McConnell (R-KY) insults constituents, Revolters, Comrade Donnie supporters, #MAGASyndicalists as ‘inbred redneck hicks’!_  
  
_LCpl (ret.) Mike Andrews, Dayton, Ohio--_  Well, fellow Red Patriots, it’s been one Hell of a day! I just listened to this recording of Senate majority leader Mitch McConnell (R-KY), apparently taken during a meeting with our man in the White House, and it made me madder than the dirtbag Nazis that tried to hold a march in my hometown (Charleston, WV, to all my fellow Mountaineers fans out there!). This no-good corporate-shill sack of shit thinks we working men are a bunch of “inbred hicks”! This takes me back to my time learning America’s history for the Civil War novel I’ve been trying to write since my first deployment--this lying, sleazy bastard McConnell is no better than the Confederate slavocrats who looked down on us working men and called us “rednecks” as a cuss word!   
  
You know what to do, boys! To all my brothers in Kentucky, and all my fellow working warriors out there, get to your phones! Help me protest McConnell’s insults and force Congress to pass Comrade Donnie’s agenda!   
  
Make Moscow Mitch our Bitch! MAGA Syndicalism!   
  
***  
  
_May 22nd. Vancouver._  
  
“I want to know how the Hell you got me an offer for one of the teachers in  _Annie on my Mind_ ,” Chyler Leigh demands the moment I enter Berlanti’s office.   
  
“...I did what now?” I ask in genuine confusion. Berlanti runs up outside and flings the door open, looking harried, a couple of anonymous food stains on his  _Supreme Leader_  T-shirt.   
  
“Comrade Donnie! Glad you could make it! I had an idea for  _Flash_  season 6 that we need to talk about when you’re done dealing with--”   
  
“Pitch me later, Greg?” He stops midsentence and nods sheepishly. I turn back to Leigh. “Ma’am, I swear, I didn’t get you any offers. At all.”   
  
She frowns. “Then why did I get a call from the Suits wanting me to play a gay teacher? Did I just get  _typecast_?”   
  
I shrug. “Probably they saw your performance and realized that you’re a phenomenal talent who really should be in the movies, Mrs. Leigh.”   
  
She grimaces for some reason. “Yeah, well, I missed out on  _that_  career option. And, I thought I told you to use my first name, Donnie?”   
  
“Sorry. Felt like being formal, you know, safer because you seemed pissed.”   
  
“I’m not  _pissed_ , not unless you bribed somebody to get me the role, anyway. OK. OK, you know, I can live with being typecast.”   
  
“What, as that chick who plays lesbians?”   
  
She runs a hand through her hair with a sigh. “You know, I’m nearly 40, I’ve got a lot of fans sending me all the support I can take on Twitter, it could be worse. I’m giving people who need support someone to look at and admire, and you know...I can live with this.” She lets out a breath, smoothing down her costume. “So. I guess we’ll need that winter sabbatical to be an extra month or so longer.”   
  
I look at Berlanti, who nods. “Yeah, we can do that.”   
  
“I budgeted time,” Berlanti confirms. “I’ve been expecting some of you to get movie offers, and you know, I’m a flexible man.”   
  
“Nice innuendo,” I note. He rolls his eyes and slaps me with a folder. “Hey! Vinnie, shouldn’t you do something about that?”   
  
“Nah,” my henchman chuckles, arms crossed as he somehow lounges standing up with his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.   
  
I huff. “You see what I have to deal with, Mrs.--uh, Chyler? No loyalty!”   
  
“I saved your life,” Vinnie comments.   
  
“...no loyalty except when it’s a life or death situation.”   
  
“Three times,” Vinnie notes.   
  
“Yeah, I said except life or death situations, man.”   
  
He chuckles. “Hmm.”   
  
“That reminds me,” Leigh says to him. “How are Liz and Natalie?”   
  
“Well, Natalie finally said  _Mama_ , so Liz is kinda over the moon.”   
  
“Oh, yeah, she emailed me about how Natalie’s first words were  _Break the Chains_.” She shoots me a look. “Liz didn’t chew you out too badly, Donnie?”   
  
“I’ve been staying the Hell away from her,” I shudder. “She’s a great person, but...I’m not stupid enough to get within death glare range of her. I wanna live, man!”   
  
“Yyyeah, she’s cooled down a bit, but between Natalie and Israel, uh, she’s  _pissed_  as Hell at you, man.” Vinnie shakes his head. “You know, she actually cares about you, kid. She won’t say it to your face, but dude, she was scared  _shitless_  when you got hurt in Israel. She called me twenty times after the attack, and when I talked to her the  _second_  thing she asked was if you were OK. The next time you run into her, I’m not standing in the way, because, dude, she  _has a point_.”   
  
“I need to take some risks to effect change,” I retort stubbornly. Vinnie and Leigh snort derisively.   
  
“How about we discuss something a little less stressful than near-death experiences?” Berlanti offers with a grin. “C’mon, Donnie, we need to talk about adding a Native American protagonist to  _Flash_.”   
  
And just like that I’m distracted. “Talk to me, Greg.”   
  
As we walk off, Leigh falls back to talk with Vinnie. I should probably be concerned, but I’m too busy planning aggressively socially progressive TV shows.   
  
Making  _Supergirl_  gay again isn’t enough. Not anymore.   
  
***  
  
_May 24th._  
  
“You have  _got_  to be shitting me,” I mutter as I lean back in my chair. The news is breathless, but Mattis mutes the overheated commentary with a shake of his head.   
  
“How does that even  _work_?” Secretary of State Walker asks in confusion. “They’re holding a new nonbinding referendum to see if they can hold a binding referendum to determine whether or not people want to hold a binding referendum to un-do the result of the first non-binding Brexit referendum???”   
  
“If it gets through the courts,” Mattis sighs. “Well, I guess the joint exercises will have to be postponed.  _Again_.” He pinches the bridge of his nose with a groan.   
  
“Gotta admit, credit to Corbyn for having the balls to go through with this,” I comment. “Though I guess the Lib-Dems forced his hand.” Jo Swinson and her pack of sad neoliberal shills threatened to bolt from the government recently if Corbyn didn’t deliver a way to avert Brexit. The Prime Minister’s a soft-Brexit proponent on economic grounds (and he’s got a point--German fears of deficit spending really did hamper the recovery from the ‘07 financial crisis in several countries), but he’s more scared of a potential Tory-run hard Brexit than of no Brexit, it seems.   
  
“This is fucking insane,” Vinnie mutters from behind me. “How many referendums does it take?”   
  
“I dunno, but either way Brexit is gonna cost the Brits a shitload,” I note. “Annie, set me up for a call with Corbyn. Fatima, try to spin this so it’s good for us. This is probably the only way to hold a second referendum without descending into straight-up ‘voting until desired result is achieved’ territory, but we need to pretend we’re sort of happy, I guess.” I shake my head. “David Cameron’s a fucking  _asshole_.”   
  
“I can’t believe they’re actually going to do the second referendum,” Annie mutters. “They must’ve  _really_  browbeaten Corbyn.”   
  
“I did tell him that Brexit was a bad idea when I called him to congratulate him last year,” I note. “Also, get me Harris, please? I gotta get legal advice on this.”   
  
“On it.” She pulls out her phone.   
  
“I don’t know how this came about, but you know, long-term I think this is a good thing,” Mattis says. “More stable, less risk of that Farage bastard getting in charge. Or even someone worse.”   
  
“Yeah, I can’t deal with Nigel Farage. Man’s a total prick.” I take a sip of water, and shake my head. “Fuck me, I need a drink.”   
  
“It could be worse,” Fatima observes from my right. “He could be trying to force a soft-Brexit deal and running his government into the ground.”   
  
“Point,” I concede. “Jeez. I still can’t believe this is happening.”   
  
“You and me both,” Vinnie rumbles.   
  
***  
_May 28th._  
  
“I’m going to fucking blow a gasket…” I mutter as I stumble into the Situation Room at 1 AM. “What happened now?”   
  
“Terrorist attack in Toronto, Mr. President,” Secretary Walker reports, rubbing her eyes. “Some guy drove a van into a mosque. Ten dead.”   
  
“Mueller?”   
  
“Being woken up. I was just getting some late-night work done with the Protocol office to deal with the Swazi meet and greet in South Africa.”   
  
“Why are you meeting the Swazis there?”   
  
She raises an eyebrow at me. “Mr. President, you banned the King of Eswatini from the USA and called him a ‘reactionary rapist tyrant’ on Twitter. There were protests in Mbabane?”   
  
I can’t help but chuckle. “Oh, right! Heh, that was a good day. Where’s Mattis?”   
  
“Chicago, tearing Boeing a new one for something, I don’t remember the details.” She yawns. “Toronto news is saying the attacker’s dead at the scene.”   
  
“Any idea who he was?”   
  
She scrolls down her phone. “Uh...Comey sent me an email fifteen minutes ago, he says he has people scouring 4chan looking for intel.”   
  
The door bursts open and Comey himself strides in, bags under his eyes. “Mr. President, good to see you’re here. Cyber-crimes just found this on 4chan, looked it over on the way down.” He hands me his phone, and I read aloud.   
  
“‘Private (Recruit) Minassian Infantry 00010, wishing to speak to’...oh,  _fuck_.” The phone slips from my suddenly-nerveless hands.   
  
“Mr. President?”   
  
I cradle my head in my hands, the smartphone slipping to the tabletop. “ _Fuck, fuck, FUCK!_  I fucking forgot! I forgot he was a thing!” I stand angrily, chair rolling back, and stride over to the wall, punching once, twice, three times, again and again, my knuckles bleeding…  
  
“ _Jesus_!” Comey cries, and grabs me with the help of my night-shift Secret Service shadow, hauling me back. “What the Hell?”   
  
“I forgot to tell the Canucks to arrest him!” I blurt out. “When I got my memory download, I forgot to update the Canadians on him, god  _damn_  it!”   
  
“The Hell are you talking about, Mr. President?” Comey asks in confusion.   
  
“ _Fuck_  me,” I snarl, wrenching out of his grip, the Secret Service guy slowly pulling back. “Fuck!  _Fuck it all to fucking fuck_!”   
  
“Sir?”   
  
I pinch the bridge of my nose, taking several deep breaths through my mouth. “What kind of crap was in that manifesto?”   
  
“Uh, something about an ‘incel rebellion’ and ‘polygamist ragheads hoarding foids’. And, uh, ‘all hail the Supreme Gentleman’, we think that’s a reference to--”   
  
“Elliot Rodger, the Isla Vista killer.” I pinch the bridge of my nose again with a groan. “So Minassian still lost it. Great.”   
  
“The Aryan Brotherhood and Totalenkrieg Division are also claiming responsibility on Gab and 8chan, but this looks more like a lone wolf.”   
  
“Of course. Of-fucking-course.” I groan again. “Right. Fuck this, I can’t handle this right now. Since it looks like a lone wolf, you guys wake me up in the morning and I’ll Tweet something. Right now I need a fucking drink.”   
  
“Mr. President--” my Secretary of State asks.   
  
“ _I need a drink_ ,” I rasp. “This shit is just too damn much right now.”   
  
Definitely a five-beers-and-a-vodka night. Vinnie would stop me at two beers.   
  
But Vinnie isn’t here right now to keep me on an even keel. 


	6. Moscow Mitch is our Bitch!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comrade Donnie deals with Little Volodya's evil plans, fucks over a Brazilian scumbag, annoys Moscow Mitch, preps for Comic-Con, and begins to show the long-term signs of constant stress and repeated emotional trauma.

_Tunis, Tunisia. June 1st, 2018._  
  
“Hello, Tunisia!” I begin with the best grin I can muster. “Sorry if I seem a little off today, there was a cowardly attack on my neighbors in Canada by a white-nationalist ‘incel’ terrorist, and I’m still kind of fucked up over it. Anyway, I’ve wanted to say for a while now, you guys, you’ve got a great country, and some great people. Things ain’t perfect here, but then again, America ain’t perfect either. But Tunisia has been making great strides towards recovery from the despicable authoritarian regime of the corrupt rat bastard Ben Ali. I’ve wanted to drop by your lovely country to…” I’m cut off by a loud cheer as my ramble is translated, and a cacophony of Arab Spring-era revolutionary slogans choke the air, the crowd stamping their feet as the Tunisian President, Essebsi I think his name was, old guy who looks like a stiff breeze could knock him over, eyes me warily.  
  
Finally the crowd quiets, and I raise my arms with a more genuine grin. “Great spirit there, folks! But like I said, you guys and we Americans, we’re in the same boat! Great countries that sometimes have a few problems with democracy and civil rights, but we’re making progress. And I like that, I like that we’re making progress! Together, we can build a brighter future, for America, for our great Tunisian allies, for the whole world!”  
  
There’s another cheer as I say  _allies_. It’s a bit of a leap, and State will be pissed at me, but Angie Walker’s a diehard socialist who supports my moves to shift our backing to democracies anyway.  
  
“The United States of America is in the process of evolving into the world’s #1 backer of human rights and democracy. If you love America? Great! I sure hope you’re democratic and respect the human rights of your citizens, because if you don’t we got a problem. If you hate America? I don’t care, so long as you’re a democracy with strong human rights protections.  
  
“If you love America and are a democracy with strong human rights protections, I’ll back you to the end of time without reservation. Stand by our side in this great journey into a brighter tomorrow, and America will stand by you.  
  
“Together, we can--” I’m cut off as Vinnie steps forward, pulling me from the mic. “Vinnie, what the Hell? I’m monologuing!”  
  
“This takes precedence,” my henchman says, deadly serious. “The Finns just raided an island in their territory owned by a Russian oligarch. Shots fired, it’s turned into a full-on battle.”  
  
“...Well, fuck my life.”  
  
The worst part is, I’m barely even fucking  _surprised_ anymore.  
  
***  
  
 _June 3rd, 2018._  
  
“A month and a half until Comic-Con,” I mutter. “A month and a half until Comic-Con…”  
  
“Mr. President?” Fatima says, poking her head in the door of the Oval Office. Fuck me, she’s still pretty. We really,  _really_ need to talk about the giant fucking sauropod dinosaur in the room between us that is the time we had sex in a Jerusalem hotel. “Hey, Donnie. You doing alright?”  
  
I raise an eyebrow at her over my Dirty Commie Heathen. “Well, I could be worse.”  
  
“Fair enough,” she concedes. “The Finns say thank you for the statement of support.”  
  
“They figured out who the Russians were backing?”  
  
“DNI’s driving up to talk to you in person. It looks like the Russians wanted to attack the Finnish parliament, killing enough of the MPs that Jussi Halla-Aho would become Prime Minister.”  
  
“Agent or useful idiot?”  
  
“I don’t know but if I had to answer, probably the latter. Either way his political career’s over, he was egged and booed off the stage while giving a press conference in Helsinki. You  _sure_ you’re alright?”  
  
“I’ll survive,” I insist. “I’ve got to. Casualty count?”  
  
“Up to twenty-seven last I checked. Three of the Finns and twenty-four of the thirty Russians; one of the Spetsnatz died in the hospital an hour ago.”  
  
“OK. ANNIE!”  
  
“Here,” my admin says, following Fatima in. “What do you need?”  
  
“Get Angie Walker at State on the line, and tell her I want our Ambassador up in front of the UN calling Vlad out again, ASAP. I’ll Tweet at Vlad, just in case.” I pull out my phone and semi-drunkenly fire off a message.  
  
  
  
“Oh, no,” Fatima mutters.  
  
“Relax, I’m just stating the facts,” I insist. “Right, this plan was fucking horrible and obviously rushed. They didn’t even have a good end goal, even I can see that. Vlad’s on the back foot--I want people researching ways to keep up the pressure.”  
  
“That is risky,” Fatima comments.  
  
“I may or may not be immortal and I’m already a zombie ghost,” I retort. “Life’s handed me massive luck on a silver platter, I intend to make use of it.  
  
“And tell Walker the sanctions are a go. I’ll call the Finns in twenty, reiterate our full support and go from there.”  
  
***  
  
 _June 4th, 2018. Moscow, Russian Federation._  
  
“Idiots,” Vladimir Putin rasped, standing up to the window of the room overlooking the Moskva with his hands clasped behind his back. “I have very little tolerance for idiots. Isn’t that right, Konstantin Andreivich?”  
  
“Er, Konstantin Yegorovich,  _Vozhd_ ,” the nervous man said. He was just a Colonel in the GRU, for God’s sake, he wasn’t important enough to be here! “I am Colonel Konstantin Yegorovich Kalinin,  _Vozhd_ , you, ah, wished to speak to me?”  
  
“Whichever,” snorted the dictator. “I have been forced to suffer many idiots in recent years, Colonel General--”  
  
“Ah, I am merely a Colonel,  _Vozhd_ ,” Kalinin said in spite of himself. Putin turned halfway to glare at him with one bloodshot eye.  
  
“If you are to run the GRU, you will be a Colonel General, Konstantin Andreivich.” Kalinin resisted the urge to correct his leader again, and Putin continued on. “Now, Sergei Kuzhugetovich tells me that you are a competent and efficient organizer. I am certain that you will serve me better than the idiot that I have had to suffer these past three months, and the idiot who came before him.”  
  
“Er, you mean Vice-Admiral Kostyukov,  _Vozhd_?” Kalinin was sweating already, ramrod straight despite his spine’s complaints.  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Putin hissed. It sounded like more animal than man. “He was quite the idiot. His failures were distressingly humiliating to me.”  
  
A man fell past the window, screaming, and crashed to the ground below, the wail cut off in an instant. Kalinin was suddenly very thankful that he’d used the restroom before the meeting.  
  
“Do not fail me, Colonel General,” Putin snarled. “Or your fate will be the same as Igor Olegovich’s.”  
  
All the unfortunate Kalinin could manage was a strangled whimper.  
  
***  
  
 _June 5th. Rio de Janeiro, Brazil._  
  
It was a hot night, as usual for June in Rio. Quiet, though, especially by the standards of the crowded Brazilian city. Voices wafted out of an open bar, the light inside flickering as a football game played on a TV. Outside, a feral cat slunk along a wall, and a few cars sat parked along the roadside. In one of them, Carlos de la Vega leaned back in his seat, rolling his neck. “When do we call it, Dan?” he asked, reaching for the E-cigarette in his pocket. He’d been trying to quit, but the stress kept making him relapse.  
  
In the driver’s seat, Daniel Espinoza checked his watch. “Thirty minutes. You think she won’t show?”  
  
“You met her. Woman’s committed.”  
  
“President’ll be pissed if we don’t get her.”  
  
“No shit, Sherlock.” Carlos took a drag. “Fucking Hell, Dan. What do you think’s on that jump drive?”  
  
“Whatever it is, if she thinks POTUS wants it, he’ll want to see it. And if he wants to see it, DNI’ll ride our asses until we get it.” Dan squinted out into the night, noting headlights down the road and…  
  
“Hold up, Chuck. Movement.”  
  
De la Vega muttered a curse, stowed the vape, and got his night-vision binoculars up. “There’s a group. Three women. They have bags.”  
  
“ _Three_ women? She was supposed to come alone!”  
  
“Fuck, it’s her.” Carlos reached into the glove compartment and grabbed a nine-millimeter Glock 19 from inside. “They’re in a hurry, start the engine.”  
  
“Got it.” Dan turned the key in the ignition, the headlights coming on with the rented Toyota. The women broke into a run--wait. The other car had sped up. “Chuck!” Dan hissed.  
  
“I see ‘em.” Carlos rolled down the window, leaning out with the Glock in hand. “ _Rápido, rápido_!” Dan moved the car forwards, the women a dozen feet away. “ _Entre no banco de trás_!”  
  
The younger woman reached the car--maybe 18, she looked terrified, shaking like a leaf. She yanked open the rear door as the oncoming car accelerated with a roar.  
  
“Gun!” Carlos barked. “ _Abaixe-se_!”  
  
The older women dropped, as the telltale rattle of a Kalashnikov Ak-74 firing on full auto sounded from the other car; Carlos fired back, and the muzzle flare dropped as one of his bullets hit home. “Hurry, get in the back!” Dan shouted in English, the younger woman screaming as the older ones picked themselves up and hurried up, the other car screeching to a halt just past Dan and Carlos’s car. Blood dripped from the younger woman’s arm, but she was alive so Dan wrote her off as not mission-critical for the moment.  
  
The women piled in in a heap, half-shoving the young one ahead of them, and Dan peeled off of the curve before the rear door was even closed. “ _Segure firme_!” he yelled, as Carlos squeezed off two more shots before pulling himself back into the car.  
  
“Surface, this is Phoenix,” Carlos snarled, holding a radio from the glove compartment to his mouth. “We have Super Mario, but there’s a complication; unknown hostiles attempted to terminate the target, and the target brought her family. New codenames--Princess Peach and Baby Peach.” He put the radio down and turned to the back seat. “Do you have the drive?”  
  
“ _Luyara está machucada, nós temos que--_ ”  
  
“ _Você tem os arquivos?!_ ” Carlos shouted, the stress getting to him. The curly-haired woman looked like she was about to argue, but the other older one grabbed her arm.  
  
“Chuck…” Dan warned, pulling a sharp left turn as a police car sprang to life behind them.  
  
“ _Somos Americanos, estamos aqui para ajudá-las, mas precisamos dos arquivos, Senhora Franco!_ ”  
  
The curly-haired woman fumbled for a small bag, holding it out. Carlos took it, checked inside, and pulled out a small flash drive. “ _Está com o arquivo?_ ”  
  
“ _Sim!_ ”  
  
“ _Excelente. Você ficará bem, Senhora Franco. Apenas fique calmo e faça **exatamente** o que eu digo._”  
  
“ _Sim, sim--obrigada, muito obrigada!_ ”  
  
“ _Agradeça ao Presidente Trump. A senhora pode fazer isso sozinha quando sairmos daqui._ ” Carlos turned back to Dan. “Drive’s here, she says it has the files.”  
  
“The others?”  
  
“Younger one’s the daughter. We’ll have to get them all out.”  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Dan cursed. “Tell Surface.”  
  
“On it.” Carlos grabbed the radio again. “Surface, this is Phoenix, I need two more tickets, and I need them fast. Super Mario brought Peach and Baby Peach and wants them out too.”  
  
“ _Confirm, two more VIPs?_ ”  
  
“Yes, damn it!” More police cars joined in behind them, and Carlos checked his Glock. “We’re being pursued by local police, too many of them for it to be random. Bowser must’ve been tipped off.”  
  
“ _Let me contact Motherland._ ” The handler went quiet. Carlos cursed as he reloaded his pistol.  
  
“Dan, we live through this and I owe you a drink, man.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Dan replied distractedly, weaving deftly through the increasing traffic as the police tried to follow. “Quit smoking for real instead, LaTasha’ll thank you.”  
  
“Fuck that, one more mission like this and I’m quitting to smoke myself to death.”  
  
The radio crackled. “ _Phoenix, Surface. Change of plans. Sending you coordinates to a power-up, get there and turn over Super Mario, then ditch the Kart and torch it._ ”  
  
“Got it.” The cops were falling behind as Dan forced his way into a busier street, but they’d have backup--and the further they went, the more likely it was that some of those cops wouldn’t be corrupt. Carlos’s phone dinged, and he checked the text from an unlisted number. “Message received, Surface. Phoenix en route. Phoenix out.”  
  
It was gonna be a long fucking night.  
  
***  
  
 _June 7th._  
  
“Great selection, Annie, Fatima,” I say as some flunkies dress me. My press secretary and admin have me wearing a ridiculously over-the-top replica of Fulgencio Batista’s idiotic hat and Leonid Brezhnev’s laughably vast collection of self-awarded medals. “Right, so Congress is deadlocked on the  _Make Our Education System Great Again! Act_ \--I need to send a thank-you to the Tunisians for the gift basket--E3’s coming up and I need to set aside some time to read over the plans for the  _Trump Games_  presentation--anything I’m missing?”  
  
“A self-proclaimed ‘folk Wotanist’ was arrested today for plotting a terrorist attack on one of the refugee settlements your  _Work For America!_  crews’ve been building up in Michigan, Illinois, and Indiana,” Annie reports. “He’s a member of a group called the White Aryan Resistance, and a follower of neo-Nazi Matthew Heimbach. FBI seized five firearms and a fertilizer bomb.”  
  
“Any co-conspirators?”  
  
“Not that we know of,” Fatima says. “I ran PR on it first thing for you--press should be appeased.”  
  
“Thanks, Fatima, you’re the best,” I tell her. She blushes at that.  
  
“Oh, I’m just doing my job, Donnie.” She kisses my cheek before either of us can fully process what just happened.  
  
“Uh…” I manage.  
  
“Oh!” Fatima says, turning away with a deeper blush. “Uh, I’m sorry…”  
  
“No, it’s fine!” I insist as the minions pull my coat on. “Just, uh, we gotta talk about this. Us. You know.”  
  
“Yeah. Um, yeah, we should.”  
  
“Also, you’re going to be expected to attend the Duke of Sussex’s wedding next month,” Annie informs me, heroically ignoring the petty drama. “They were going to do it a few weeks ago, but what with Brexit and the Israel incident…”  
  
“Yeah, I get it, plans change. Why should I care?”  
  
“Because Corbyn needs support for his soft-Brexit plan and convinced the Queen to invite you. You’ll show for the wedding--morning suit, best behavior, if you fuck it up I’ll set Liz Wilson on you--then do a PR event with Corbyn the next day. The plan’s to capitalize on good feelings from the wedding.” She grabs me by the Brezhnev coat, the medals clinking. “ _Best behavior._  Got it?”  
  
I nod. “Yeah, I’ve been to a wedding once.” I cock my head, reminiscing. “OK, so I was like 8, and it was my black-sheep uncle’s, and my step-cousin and I, great dude, hope he’s doing well, we went and crawled around on the dance floor at the reception tripping people up. Pretty sure I slept through the actual ceremony.”  
  
“Maybe don’t do that?” Fatima suggests.  
  
“Yeah, the Queen might take that badly,” Vinnie chimes in from behind me. “And Corbyn would be pissed for bombing his PR plan.”  
  
“OK, I’ll drink extra tea in the morning. Or take some 5-hour Energy. And I won’t rip my clothes off and scream that god is a lie before overturning a pew and pissing on the cake.”  
  
Annie rolls her eyes, as Fatima looks at me with some trepidation. “Bit specific there, but alright,” my admin allows. “You’re also expected to make a charitable donation in lieu of a gift.”  
  
“Take five million bucks from one of my accounts and donate it to, oh, I dunno, Oxfam. No, wait, Doctors Without Borders. Tell them not to use my name on anything, just say that I donated it as a wedding gift to Prince whatshisface and Ms. whatshername. Then donate another million to the Green Belt Movement, in the name of Wangari Maathai and her heroic efforts to defend the Kenyan fatherland from neo-colonialist exploitation. Wangari Maathai was cool.”  
  
“I’ll get it done. Your speech today is about Native American issues, though you might get asked about the Finland affair again.”  
  
“How much is there to even say? Vlad tried to launch a poorly-thought-out coup, it backfired spectacularly on his ass, now he’s trying to block the sanctions going through the Security Council. Wait, actually--get State on this, have Walker pressure the Russians on Crimea. Hand it back to Ukraine and we drop the sanction attempts.”  
  
“On my list,” Annie confirms. “In other news, the Russians are saying that Igor Kostyukov, the new head of the GRU, ‘slipped and fell in his home’. He’s dead.”  
  
I raise an eyebrow at that. “He was executed, wasn’t he?”  
  
“Almost certainly,” Annie agrees. “Probably because of the clusterfuck in Finland--Putin’s probably going to make him the scapegoat, in keeping with the official line that the coup attempt was an unauthorized action taken by a rogue mercenary group. Anyway, you’re likely going to be asked about that, and the Marielle Franco situation.”  
  
“Mueller has her in protective custody, right?”  
  
“24/7 guard,” Vinnie confirms. “I served with the head of the detail. Good woman. Hardass, but good.”  
  
“Good. If we get even a  _hint_ that Bolsonaro or Putin’s making a try for her, I want sanction packages on both the motherfuckers prepped and ready to go. The documents?”  
  
“Mueller has the CIA going through them, he wants to meet after the press conference,” Annie says. “Office betting pool has it at three to one odds there’s incriminating information on Temer and Bolsonaro both.”  
  
“I’ll see if it’s OK to let you guys know who took what bribes.” I shrug on my Brezhnev coat with help from some minions. “Right, let’s hit the press corps.”  
  
I stride out to the sound of  _This Land is Your Land_  and take my place at the podium. I take a breath. In. Out.  
  
I didn’t even rehearse this one with my team, they’re gonna be so fucking surprised, heh.  
  
"We must secure the existence of Native people and a future for Native children, because the beauty of Native American women must not perish from the earth," I say, managing to keep a straight face. There’s a moment of stunned silence.  
  
Then I break into a grin and wink at the cameras. “Yeah, I know exactly what I just said, and I said it specifically to piss off white supremacists. Come and get me, you fucking filth pile of fascists and Klansmen. I will break you! MAGA Equality! MAGA Socialism!  
  
“Now, let’s get serious and talk about the fucked-up way that the outdated bantustan--I mean, reservation--system screws over our great Native women and makes effective law enforcement nearly impossible. Right now, people on reservations are in legal limbo, their cops can’t pursue crooks across the reservation lines and there’s a whole fucking laundry list of conditions and legal snafus that happen when a Native person and a non-Native person are involved with the same crime, it’s so bad that outside cops regularly just refuse to bother with the crime. Fuck that shit, we gotta fix it, every American deserves the same fair justice, that’s the cornerstone of our identity as a nation! Really, the whole reservation system is outdated. We should reform the system bigly and do it quick, I’ll call Hank Adams up here, right here to DC, and any other Native leaders who want to come, hash out some kinda way to fix this mess so Native people get some reparations for all the ethnic cleansing and genocide their ancestors suffered through and get a square deal now that Washington’s all embarrassed about that time Andrew Jackson ethnically cleansed the Cherokees and that time George Washington burned down villages and that time the Plymouth colonists wiped out the entire Pequot nation and that time that the California gold rush led to a couple more cases of straight-up genocide and that time that idiot Custer went and got his racist ass killed trying to murder a bunch of Native Americans and that time that psychopath John Chivington used Native kids for target practice because he was a racist fuck-knuckle--” I pause for breath, then continue, “--and that time we spread smallpox blankets to Native people and that time in the 1830s when the Secretary of War ordered that Native people be denied smallpox vaccinations and that time we--well, you get the idea. It’s the 21st century, people are embarrassed that we used to be racist enough to make Hitler nod in approval, and frankly if that leads to some reform then by jingo I’ll fucking take it. We need massive, bigly yuge changes to the reservation system and we need it quick. Starting by better integrating the reservations into the government structure to give Native people more real political power.  
  
”I think maybe some reservations can become counties, others maybe should become states, I want more states in America, the more the better, start with Puerto Rico and start adding bigly beautiful Native Americans, too, MAGA America, MAGA Old Glory! We must honor the legacy and continuing place that our Native citizens have in our great nation and great society, and must continue to make amends for past wrongs committed by the federal and state governments and private actors against Native peoples. But most importantly we gotta make life objectively better for Native Americans right now, just like we gotta help African-Americans and the Rust Belt. Pine Ridge has a yuge crime problem because of bullshit outdated legal loopholes, we gotta fix that! Protect our Native women, protect our Native kids, protect their cultures and languages and religions and bring them justice! MAGA Equality, MAGA Socialism!”  
  
There’s more stunned silence. I can hear Fatima sigh behind me.  
  
Finally Lacey Dawes speaks up. “Mr. President--you do know that it’s going to be nearly impossible to add more states, especially if it means carving present states up, right?”  
  
“Yeah, but when there’s a will there’s a way, Lacey. And our bigly great Native citizens deserve better. At the very least I can use my executive order power to block the Keystone XL oil pipeline. Which I did this morning. Fuck Big Oil, we will build a new American energy industry and we will make the corpos pay for it!”  
  
Lacey shakes her head with a chuckle. “Every time I think I’m done being surprised by you, you do something even crazier and somehow make it work. Good luck, Mr. President.”  
  
“Thanks, Lacey. Good luck on the Pulitzer for the Paradise papers, by the way.”  
  
“Thank  _you_ , Mr. President. Also, any comment on the incident in Brazil recently?”  
  
“The CIA acquired intelligence on Russian interference with Brazilian elections, and a corrupt plan to rig the vote by high-level Brazilian political figures. The CIA also successfully thwarted an assassination attempt on a Brazilian politician, Marielle Franco, by a high-placed rival, and have offered her temporary asylum in the United States of America. We are investigating information that she has on said rival, and possible ties between the assassination plot and the Kremlin. That’s all I’m really supposed to say right now.”  
  
“And the coup in Finland?”  
  
“Are you just trying to hog all the answers here, Lacey?”  
  
“Yeah. I mean, if I’m your favorite, I should at least use that status, right?”  
  
“Point,” I allow. “Let’s just say that Vlad had better be in a mood to compromise, because the UN thinks he should give Crimea back to Ukraine, and he  _doesn’t_ want to know what I’ll do to his economy if he doesn’t play ball.” After a moment, I add, “It’ll be like what I did to his ass that one time in that Sultan’s sex dungeon in Brunei, only a thousand times more painful.” I’ll probably get an angry letter from the Sultan of Brunei, but really, the Sultan of Brunei is human pond scum so why should I care?  
  
Lacey chuckles as the other reporters explode with questions. I smirk like an asshole and wait for them to quiet down. Sometimes, I fucking love being President.  
  
Now let’s fuck up Bolsonaro.  
  
***  
  
 **Headlines of _O Globo_ , June 8th, 2018. (translated from Portuguese)  
  
 _BOLSONARO AND TEMER--CORRUPT PLOTTERS!_  
  
President Trump releases statement linking President Temer and PSL candidate to Russian plot!**  
  
Bolsonaro and Temer deny allegations of Russian support.  
  
 **Bolsonaro ordered assassination of rival!**  
  
Marielle Franco speaks from US, blames Bolsonaro, corrupt police for murder attempt!  
  
 **“Ridiculous allegations”--Bolsonaro denies everything.**  
  
Candidate heckled at speech as protesters clash with supporters.  
  
 **PT demands Temer resignation in Kremlin scandal.**  
  
Lula calls alleged Russian spy backing “corrupt and treasonous”.  
  
 **Thousands march in Rio, Brasilia, Sao Paulo.**  
  
“Lock up the traitors”, “Victory to Syndicalism” among chants heard.  
  
***  
  
 _June 10th. Dearborn, Michigan._  
  
“So great to see so many folks out today!” I grin into the microphone. “You Yazidis are some great people, you know, really swell, we’re glad to have you here. Comrade Tlaib here asked me personally to divert you folks to Dearborn first, she’s a daughter of refugees herself, her parents are Palestinian Muslims by birth who fled Israeli aggression about fifty, sixty years ago.” I clap Representative Tlaib on the shoulder once, twice, then step down into the crowd, Tlaib following me after a moment with Fatima on my other flank, Vinnie and two of his top men looming behind us, all three silent death. Just in case the Nazis managed to get through Vinnie’s security and the Red Patriot Guard militiamen ‘lending a hand’ on security by standing around with guns, serving hamburgers and grilled vegetables from grills they brought in on pickups. At least they’re being friendly to the Yazidis who’re brave enough to walk up and say hi to the big, strange-looking men with large weapons; I count that as a net positive.  
  
“I hope you folks are settling in well; I know it really sucks, being torn from your homes, your land invaded by psychopathic terrorist fanatics, but I hope that America is a satisfactory substitute. In fact, I hope that some or even all of you will come to love this great nation as much as I do, and that you’ll settle here permanently to raise your children in the United States. The strength of America is our diversity, and having lots of Yazidis here will make our fantastic nation much stronger. We’re still working on steady jobs, but with the Patriot Solar Cooperative that just got started in Detroit, Freedom America Socialist Home Windmills here in Dearborn, and the factories they’re repurposing, there should be  _something_ up and running in months. In the meantime, there should be good temp work in construction thanks to the funding I browbeat my bitch, Moscow Mitch, into letting through Congress.” Took a letter-writing campaign from my cultists and two protests outside the Capitol, but worth it.  
  
“In the meantime, we’re glad to have you folks here. More people means more GDP, which means a stronger economy. Welcome to America, folks. Any questions?”  
  
It takes a moment for the translators to finish conveying my words in Kurmanji, but there seem to be a lot of nodding heads. An older man with an impressive beard shoulders through the crowd, and one of my mooks hustles up with a mic for him. The guy speaks into the mic, and Fatima slips up to whisper into my ear.  
  
“He says,  _How will we return to our lands in Rojava and Kurdistan, if we decide to do so_?”  
  
“We’ll help cover some of the costs if you folks can’t afford it,” I assure him. “But that’s probably going to be years down the line, I don’t think any of you want to go back to an active war zone. When the Syrian conflict’s over and Rojava’s a little more established, I promise you that I will open dialogue to ensure that any mass return is handled in a mutually acceptable, fair, and agreeable manner. And if it isn’t, then I will threaten nukes until it  _becomes_ acceptable, fair, and agreeable, because that negotiation tactic worked great for me before and I’m a fucking crazy person.”  
  
The old guy nods, frowns at the mention of nukes, but nods hesitantly as the translator finishes. A middle-aged man steps up, and a minion offers him a mic.  
  
“This one says,  _Your people’s doctors told us that we had to get some kind of shot, even the children, for our safety, but then a woman with one of the charities came and told us that the shots would poison our children and give them some disease of the mind. Which is true? Is this some plot against us?_ ”  
  
I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose. “That woman was an anti-vaxxer. They spread lies based on a pile of lying propaganda cooked up by a corrupt doctor decades ago who was trying to line his own pockets, lies that can result in people dying of preventable illnesses. The shots are vaccines, which will keep you and your children safe from diseases, you’ve probably had something similar back in Syria at some point but we have a bunch of laws to make sure that everybody’s vaccinated against everything possible just in case. This is important because some people are born with dangerously weak immune systems and can’t be safely vaccinated--and some vaccines need to be taken multiple times to take, which puts the youngest kids at some risk. If everybody  _else_  is vaccinated, though, these people can live safely, those babies can grow up safely, because there simply aren’t enough susceptible people for the diseases to infect. Getting vaccinated is a civic duty  _and_  protects your children.”  
  
The middle-aged man speaks into the mic again. “ _So the woman with the charity was a liar and the doctors told the truth_?” Fatima translates.  
  
“In a nutshell, yes.”  
  
“ _Thank you_.”  
  
“Thank  _you_ , sir. And welcome to America! MAGA Lady Liberty!”  
  
As a younger man steps forward, there’s a commotion near the edge of the crowd. I look over with a frown, and Vinnie steps up closer to me as the militia idiots start to move towards the noise, some going for their guns, but thankfully none of those jackasses actually  _draws_  (that might cause a fucking riot). It looks like a woman and a couple of men having an argument, she’s being pushed away from the crowd.  
  
“Get me over there,” I order Vinnie. He motions sharply to his team, and we push through the people with a Secret Service spearhead. Most move aside of their own accord, too. Nice folks.  
  
The mess is coming from a young woman carrying something--a baby, I realize, with a shock of blonde hair sticking out of the bundle. The men, a young one and a couple of older fellows, are shouting in Kurmanji as the woman pleads with them.  
  
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?” I bellow. Always a good show-stopper. The men turn guiltily, and the woman pushes forward, babbling something in Kurmanji.  
  
“She’s saying that the baby is hers, she wants to keep it but her husband wants to give it away,” Fatima hisses in my ear. “I’m sorry, she’s talking really fast…”  
  
I wave a translator forwards, and hold out my hands placatingly. “Hey, easy, easy, ma’am. Take a couple deep breaths, huh?”  
  
She quiets, gulping for breath wide-eyed as one of the men starts to say something in Kurmanji with a threatening gesture--before Vinnie steps forward with one eyebrow raised, hand on his gun. The guy backs down fast.  
  
The woman starts talking again, and Fatima translates. I owe her another raise, damn it. “OK, I think I got all of that. She says,  _I was taken by the evil men, they sold me to be used, the baby came from one of them, but Melech Taus gave him to me alone and didn’t let the evil men take him. I want to keep him but my family and my husband won’t have him, he’s not a proper Yazidi and he reminds my husband of the demon men. Please don’t let them give away my baby!_ ”  
  
“Is your husband here?” I ask. Fatima translates. The woman nods jerkily, and the younger man steps forward, saying something--probably that he’s her husband--in Kurmanji. She points to him, and I step forwards with a scowl.  
  
“What the fuck’s the matter with you, asshole? Your wife needs you right now. She’s been through Hell on Earth, subjected to things no human being was ever supposed to suffer, and you, what, you just stand the fuck around and act like it’s the baby’s fault his mother,  _your fucking wife_ , was kidnapped and raped by monsters? Grow some fucking balls, man! I get that being forced from your home by genocidal madmen sucks, but this is your  _wife_. The woman  _you_  swore to make your one and only, and who swore to be your one and only. Now, I may be a madman, but I think those vows kinda mean something, and I think that if you  _aren’t_  willing to give your wife the support she needs or aren’t willing to chip in to raise her innocent child, that  _you’re_  the asshole here.  
  
“On top of that, that kid is innocent. The sins of the father are not the sins of the son--indeed, they  _cannot_  be, or society would descent into a pointless orgy of endless blood feuds, people murdering each other for generations because some guy’s uncle spat in the other’s father’s face once. We had something like that, the Hatfields and the McCoys, two families who hated each other for stupid reasons. It all ended in stupid death, blood and pain over nothing.  
  
“So strap your fucking balls in and treat this woman and this baby right, you pussy.”  
  
The audience gapes as it’s translated. The younger guy goes a few interesting colors, and stammers, trying to find something to say. Fatima steps forward to cover the woman, more Secret Service agents converging. Thankfully, my idiot militia cultists have the good sense to keep their guns pointed at the ground and stick to serving food. Probably helps that Vinnie has some goons watching them.  
  
“ _Ez...tu...tu…_ ” the husband manages.  
  
An older man with a thin, white beard emerges from the crowd and slaps him upside the head. There’s a brief, angry exchange in Kurmanji, then the middle-aged men who’d been with the husband cut in, only for the older guy to snap back at them.  
  
“What’s he saying?” I hiss to nobody in particular. Tlaib shrugs helplessly, I guess she doesn’t know Kurmanji.  
  
“Something about being guests and local customs,” Fatima whispers back, cradling the young woman and her baby to her. The old guy finishes tongue-lashing the other men and turns back to me, offering a smile, a placating gesture, and something in Kurmanji.  
  
“He says, basically, that he apologizes for breach of custom, they’re guests in your country and apologize for not being used to how things work here yet,” Fatima explains.  
  
“Tell him thanks, he seems chill,” I reply. “Also, those ‘welcome to America’ guides they got handed when they stepped off the plane are actually kind of important. Here, we don’t blame kids for their origins.”  
  
The old guy nods with a smile as it’s translated. The husband objects; the old guy turns and motions sharply, saying something more in Kurmanji, but less harshly. I jerk my head at Tlaib. “Your turn, Comrade.”  
  
Tlaib steps forward to stand just ahead of me. “Hey there, sir. I’m Rashida, I’m the Congresswoman around here.” The old guy nods politely as it’s translated. “Basically, I’m part of the government, and if you guys have any problems settling in, people treating you badly, you come to me.” It’s translated, and the old guy nods again.  
  
“Yes, I read, book Americans gave us,” the old guy replies in halting, heavily accented English. “Arabic?”  
  
“ _Nem , 'iinaha lghti alliyturjia_ ,” Tlaib replies. The old guy grins and rattles something off in Iraqi-accented Arabic, to which Tlaib replies. I can barely process TV-accented Arabic, let alone a regional dialect, and Tlaib stumbles over some words and has a noticeably different pronunciation, too.  
  
“Fatima?” I whisper.  
  
“She’s just clearing up how voting works in America,” she tells me. Another quick exchange in Arabic I’m not proficient enough to process. “He had the Constitution read to him by a bilingual person once and wanted some clarification on the First Amendment. It’s going over well.”  
  
“Fair enough.” Yazidis are a historically private people, it makes sense that they’d have limited faculty with English and American politics. “Tell them that they are welcome to build a house of worship, do whatever religious stuff they like, but we’ve got rules here about minority groups and women’s rights.”  
  
Fatima does so, her TV-style Arabic semi-comprehensible to my semi-trained ears. I only have like a semester of intensive Arabic so my knowledge is... _not_ the best. The husband replies, clearly upset but somewhat mollified. The wife cries something back in Kurmanji, and the old man says something placating.  
  
“We also have marriage counselors,” I offer helpfully. “I have a few spare million dollars, I can set up a fund to pay for therapy for people?”  
  
Fatima nods and translates that, and the husband replies with visible confusion. Tlaib and the old guy both explain something to him in Arabic. I take the opportunity to lean into Fatima’s ear. “You know Kurmanji?”  
  
“Refugees in the apartment next to mine. Alevi Kurds, they make the best  _lokma_ buns.”  
  
“Fair enough.” The husband’s looking less upset now after the old man’s remonstration, and the old man reaches out to gently tug the young woman from Fatima. She goes, hesitantly, and the husband says something in Kurmanji.  
  
“He says that he’ll try to understand, for her sake. The  _pir_ \--the old man, he’s from one of the priestly families--and Representative Tlaib convinced the husband that his wife needs him more than his--hang on, what’s the right word...desire for vengeance? I’m not certain, but I think it’s OK now.” Indeed, the woman’s half-collapsed into the husband’s arms, and he’s holding her close while murmuring something.  
  
“Good,” I say because there’s fuck all else to be said. The old man--the ‘pir’--turns to me and clears his throat.  
  
“Sorry, English bad. Thanks, for kindness. We, good guests.”  
  
“Tell him that I’m more than happy to have him and his people, and I hope they learn to enjoy America, even though our food is processed crap, our sports offenses to the concept, and our pop music a crime against sound.”  
  
She translates with a little grin, and the old man’s face splits into a wide grin as a genuine-sounding chuckle ripples through the Yazidis. The  _pir_  dips his head at me and says something in Kurmanji.  
  
“He says that there must be something to processed food and bad music, then, because America seems a wonderful country.”  
  
I can’t help but crack a grin at that. I offer the old guy my hand, and he takes it with another warm smile. It’s a rough, bony hand, but the grip is firm and confident.  
  
“You did a great job out there,” I tell Tlaib later as we head for my motorcade. “You’re gonna go far in Congress.”  
  
“Thanks, Mr. President,” she replies with a grin. “Honestly I’m just grateful that gentleman helped calm things down.”  
  
“Yeah, seems like a stand-up dude, keep in touch with him. Also, Comrade?”  
  
“Yes, Mr. President?”  
  
“You call me Comrade Donnie. And, talk to Bernie Sanders. He’s a good dude. I voted for him.”  
  
Let’s hope that every boatload of refugees fits in this well.  
  
***  
  
 _June 13th._  
  
“Here we go,” I mutter as Drew Karpyshyn takes the stage for Trump Games’s presentation. “Anyone want popcorn?”  
  
“Sure,” Fatima says, and I pass her the bowl. Annie’s busy browbeating a Congresscritter for me, so it’s just Vinnie, Fatima, and me, though Vinnie’s on his phone texting somebody.  
  
On the screen, Karpyshyn raises his hands to quiet the screaming audience. “ _Thank you, thank you! I have to admit, it’s a little strange working for the President of the United States, even if in name only because he has no influence over the company because he doesn’t want to cause a conflict of interest. But, it’s given me and the rest of the team at Trump Games some room to really flex our creative muscles and have some fun making good, old-school games for a new, vibrant audience._  
  
 _“So we’ll start with what you’ve all been waiting for, the in-game alpha footage of_ SuperSoldier: Nazi Slayer! _, before showcasing some of the projects that we’re starting to develop alongside it!_ ” He steps to the side, and the big screen flicks over to the  _Nazi Slayer!_  logo.  
  
We fade in to a disclaimer stating Alpha version, subject to change; some elements may not reflect final build. Then the screen shifts to the cutscene; a black male Super-Soldier getting a briefing from Witold Pilecki.  
  
“OK, the animation looks good already,” I comment. “They probably smoothed it out, but still, it looks decent.”  
  
“I like the voice actor for the second man, the Polish one,” Fatima comments.  
  
“Yeah, Witold Pilecki is the character’s name. Real guy. Got himself sent to a concentration camp multiple times, the mad bastard. Good dude, real hero.” Something I make kind of a point of in the drafts I sent to the devs; this guy’s our ultimate hero. Because the guy fucking rocked.  
  
I take a sip of lemonade--Vinnie and Fatima took my booze, because my life is pain. “And here goes our combat segment,” I point out as the cutscene ends. “This is supposed to be the first takedown of a concentration camp. You literally liberate Auschwitz, kill all the Nazis, save the prisoners, and blow up the gas chambers.” And indeed, that begins as the protagonist punches the gate open and charges in, socking a Nazi so hard the guy goes flying into the middle distance. The Super-Soldier’s backup--a Soviet woman and another black man with a number of large weapons--follow him in, opening fire on the guard towers.  
  
“I think the whole, getting  _literal patriotism_  from killing Nazis, is a little overly aggressive?” Fatima offers.  
  
Vinnie snorts. “I’ve told the big dope that plenty of times before, you think he gives a shit?”  
  
“Yeah, I fucking hate Nazis. And white supremacists in general, really,” I comment. A red, white, and blue meter fills as the protagonist kills Nazi after Nazi, and then the Nazi-killing goal triggers complete, we get another brief cutscene, and the Super-Soldier shifts into nanny mode, racking up point after point of Heroism along a golden bar under the XP/Patriotism bar as he fends off Nazis tryring to attack his squadmates as they set charges on a gas chamber. “This is the key bit, killing Nazis may be patriotism, but to be a hero you gotta help people, too.”  
  
“I...see.” Fatima still seems kind of hesitant at all the gratuitous violence, but Vinnie’s getting into it as the intro cutscene for the boss plays.  
  
“OK, I like the Heroism/Patriotism thing and I like how they’re doing the Nazi supersoldier.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s pretty cool,” I concur. “You basically fight the supersoldier boss then kill the  _Kommandant_ in the cutscene.” On-screen, the Super-Soldier punches the Nazi supersoldier repeatedly as the Nazi shoots purple lightning. “What do you guys think of my pardon plan?”  
  
“Risky to pardon every nonviolent drug offender in the United States,” Vinnie says as the Super-Soldier delivers a knockout punch to the Nazi’s jaw, starting a cutscene. “But it’ll secure you the black vote and a lot of votes in the Midwest.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s easier than abolishing the police, too,” I mutter. On screen, the Super-Soldier kayos the Nazi goon and captures the  _Kommandant_ , locking the screaming little man in handcuffs. Brief interaction with Pilecki, then fade to the title screen.  
  
The applause on-screen is thunderous.  
  
Vinnie pats me on the back with a grin. “Kid, I don’t know why you worry. This is gonna be a fantastic ride.”  
  
I wish I could share his optimism about the future. Though that might be the memories of Jerusalem and New Jersey talking.  
  
***  
  
 _June 16th._  
  
“Dad?”  
  
I look up, realizing that it’s a lot later than I thought as I see the lack of light through the windows. “Hey, Tiffany. What’s up? And jeez, look at the time…” I shove the draft of the  _Fix Our Prison System Now!_  Act aside with a sigh.  
  
“Barron and I wanted you to eat dinner with us,” she says. “You’ve been staying up late a lot recently.” She eyes the open bottle of Jack Daniels on my desk with concern. “Dad--how much are you drinking?”  
  
“Not enough,” I rasp. “Sorry. I’ll put it away.” I cap the whiskey and shove it into the Resolute Desk. “Shit, and I have to sign the executive order making all executive-branch bathrooms gender-neutral in the morning. A million fucking brushfires, Tiffany, I swear.”  
  
“And you didn’t even ask for this job, either.”  
  
I chuckle ruefully as we leave the Oval office, Vinnie slipping in behind us silently. “Yeah, though like an idiot I grabbed it with both hands when it fell in my lap, Tiffany.”  
  
“You’ve done a lot already, Dad.”  
  
“Yeah, and I damn near blew up the planet. I’ve nearly been killed three times in a year. Holy shit, Tiffany, I nearly  _died_ three times in a year.” I shudder, and she gives me a worried look. “And in Israel...that kid, he was just some college kid in an intern job. I can’t get it out of my head, Tiffany. He jumped, and there was so much blood, and I just  _don’t get it_. Why the Hell do people hate so goddamn much, huh? I get it, like, on an intellectual level, but I don’t understand, like, instinctively, it’s broken, it’s so fucked up, Tiffany, it’s just a fucking mess. So much fucking blood and pain, and for  _what_?” I snarl with rage and haul off at the wall, but Vinnie grabs me in an iron grip, pulling me back. “Let me the fuck go, Vinnie! Fucking psycho in Toronto murders a bunch of kids with a fucking car, and for what? Nazis try to kill me and a little girl, and for  _what_? Why the Hell are people so fucked up?  _What the fuck is wrong with this planet?_ ”  
  
“And that’s a great question to ask in therapy tomorrow,” Vinnie and Tiffany say simultaneously, then look to each other with rueful grins.  
  
“Can’t, I have to make some calls for Angie Walker. She’s trying to deal with the sexual exploitation mess in Iraq.”  
  
“You’re getting therapy, and Walker’s going to have to try to browbeat the Grand Ayatollah into issuing a fatwa personally,” Vinnie growls as my henchman and daughter-- _Trump’s_  daughter--frog-march me out.  
  
“I have to tell Bone-Saw bin Salman to go fuck a fish because I’m not selling him any more weapons to kill Yemenis with--”  
  
“You can do that next week.”  
  
“I have to finish recording for the video on how oil companies created global-warming-denialism for profit and the propaganda vid reframing environmental protection as preserving sacred national heritage--”  
  
“ _You have time,_ ” Tiffany snaps. “Dad. I’ve grown a lot in the past year and a half. I like to think that I’m a much better person than I was the day you disowned Ivanka, Slimeball, and Shithead and made me the favorite. But the one thing I’m  _certain_  of is that I’m a much better judge of people now than I was back then. You’re up to nearly two six-packs a day, of serious beer, too, and you didn’t even drink until a few months ago outside of two or three poorly-advised writing sessions with CW actresses and producers. I’m not a psych major, but you need a break, and you need it  _fast_.”  
  
“We’re maybe three, four years from losing the vaquita, there’s a porpoise  _going extinct right now_  and I can save it--”  
  
“Obrador’s forty points ahead and climbing, and he’s already promised in secret to commit to the recovery plan. He’ll save that whale, dad, and he’ll make it a mascot.”  
  
“Tiffany, I gotta…”  
  
“You gotta  _rest_ ,” Vinnie snaps. “And stop drinking so goddamn much, it’s not good for you, kid.” There are bags under his eyes--with the heightened security after the last few attempts on my life, he must be run ragged. I should delegate more of the stuff I handed off to him to other people.  
  
“C’mon, Dad,” Tiffany says. “Get a shower, and I’ll tell you how I almost started dating my friend Riley before I clued in that she’s gay and thought we were a couple.”  
  
I protest, but I’ve kinda run out of justifications.  
  
At least it’s a hilarious story.  
  
***  
  
 _June 18th._  
  
“How do I look?” I ask Fatima.  
  
“Almost Presidential,” she replies. “Are you ready?”  
  
“As I’ll ever be.” I crack my neck, shrug my shoulders, and rub my hands together. “Let’s meet with Comrade Bernie.”  
  
Bernie Sanders stands as I stride into my office. “Mr. President,” he greets me with an electric grin. “I assume that you want my support in the Senate?”  
  
“Actually, yeah, and I want to support you,” I admit, shaking his hand with something approaching glee. “Huge honor, Comrade Bernie--can I call you Bernie?”  
  
He chuckles. “Help me help the American people and you can call me whatever you want, Mr. President.”  
  
“Call me Comrade Donnie, all my friends do. Anyway, huge honor to meet you in person like this, I voted for you in the primary, was gonna write you in in the general but Trump’s numbers, my numbers were strong in the Rust Belt so I voted for Hillary instead.” He looks momentarily confused but I plow on. “I need your help in introducing a wealth tax and going after billionaire tax havens, building a new green industry, fucking up the corpos, all of that.”  
  
“I’m in,” he grins before I can even take a breath. “Are you behind Medicare for All?”  
  
“I’m behind it all the way. Free college?”  
  
“I’m all for it, uh, Comrade Donnie.” He’s grinning broadly again, and I mirror it. “I have to admit, I have no idea why you spend your weekends working on a TV show for free, or why you... _changed_ , but whoever you are, I want to tell you right now that I’m glad to have you.”  
  
“Oh, man, you don’t know  _how_  much that means, Comrade Bernie,” I gush. “I’ve got your back, all the way, all the way, as long as I’m in this useless idiot’s body.” I shake his hand vigorously with both of mine, then remember myself. “Uh, want a sandwich? All vegetarian, Annie had the minions do a Subway run this morning.”  
  
“Sure, why not?” Bernie sits and I open the minifridge behind the Resolute desk.  
  
“I got a six-inch on whole wheat with lettuce, tomato, cucumber, pickles, spinach, olives, provolone, and some Italian dressing?”  
  
“That sounds wonderful, thank you.”  
  
“Here you go, Comrade.” I pass him the sandwich with a grin, and take a footlong of my own. It’s easy to tell which ones Annie had the minions get for me, because they’ve got  _Extreme Leader_  written on the wrappers in Sharpie. “So. I know your position--Obamacare’s a nice start, but not enough. And I agree! We need single-payer health care and we need to pay for it with a slight tax hike on the middle class and a massive wealth tax.”  
  
“Before we do a wealth tax, you’ll need to deal with the capital flight risk,” Bernie cautions as he unwraps his sandwich and I dig into mine. “You--well, not  _you_ you, Donald Trump, whatever happened to him, or if you are him--look, you know what I mean. Trump and other wealthy people, they just go and ship everything to Monaco or wherever if they get worried about taxes.”  
  
“Agreed,” I reply with a nod. “How’s the vacation home, by the way?”  
  
“Very peaceful, but I feel a little guilty whenever I walk in,” he chuckles. “You know, I made millions from my book, and I wasn’t even able to raise my own taxes!”  
  
“Yeah, I know the feeling,” I admit. “I made three billion dollars on sports betting, betting on  _Supergirl_ ’s success, taking bribes from Bone Saw bin Salman, you know, the usual—”  
  
“Wait,  _what_?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, Mohammed bin Salman paid me several million dollars for a lease on a floor of Trump Tower. But it’s wired floor to ceiling worse than a KGB hotel, the CIA caught Bone-Saw on tape plotting to have a politically inconvenient guy called Khashoggi murdered and cut up with a bone saw. So I had Khashoggi tipped off and let Hamas know that protecting him’s politically convenient for me, so Khashoggi’s in hiding in Gaza being watched by US transition assistance forces. We’re shipping him over here in a few weeks. When I think I have enough evidence, I’m gonna end Bone-Saw’s career, and probably get him executed as a scapegoat given how the Saudi regime works, too. That’ll teach that sack of shit to fuck around in Yemen causing mass starvation and war crimes.”  
  
Bernie’s staring at me wide-eyed. “That’s...how the...you’re…”  
  
“Of course I can also use it as leverage over ol’ Bone Saw,” I muse. “Force him to pull out of Yemen on pain of releasing the intel. Either way,  _fuck_  that guy and  _fuck_ what he’s done to Yemen.”  
  
“You’re a nut job,” Bernie realizes.  
  
“...yeah, I’m getting that way,” I admit. “These last few months, it’s been tough.”  
  
“...Well. I guess you’re better than Donald Trump,” Bernie admits.  
  
I give him a thousand-yard stare haunted by my year of downloaded memories. “You have  _no_ idea.”  
  
Annie knocks on the door and pokes her head in. “Mr. President? I’m sorry to interrupt, but Michel Temer just got taken to the hospital.”  
  
“Wait,  _what_?” I’m on my feet, and Bernie turns in his seat.  
  
“Brazilian news says he’s suffering from a sudden illness. Mueller wants you to call him, now.”  
  
“On it.” I turn back to Bernie. “Take this up later, Comrade?”  
  
“Absolutely,” Bernie says, shaking my hand then ducking to wrap up his sandwich. “Thank you for lunch. And I’ve got your back, Mr. President, as long as you support policies that’ll help the people.”  
  
“Trust me, Bernie, it’s me who’s got your back. You’re an inspiration.”  
  
Now let’s figure out what the Sam Hill happened in Brazil.  
  
***  
  
 _June 20th. 500 South Buena Vista Street, Burbank, California._  
  
“I’m telling you, Bob, we’re leaving a  _massive_ market untapped,” Kevin Feige said, barely avoiding a straight-up growl. “If we let Warner Brothers get the jump on us again--look, the President’s already getting rave reviews for the crap he put on TV, and he’s a fucking lunatic. I’ve got reports from my social-media people here,” and Feige heaved a thousand and a half pages of documents onto the table with a grunt and a  _thunk_ , “showing increasingly negative perception of our brands, of the entire Goddamn Marvel cinematic universe that I have driven myself to exhaustion time and time again to make into a veritable gold mine for this corporation. If we allow the President and his new friends at Time Warner to seize the banner of socially progressive media properties from us, we are at serious risk of seeing a catastrophic feedback loop of negative social media coverage of our most profitable product. This is a potentially  _apocalyptic_  situation for our profit margins and our long-term financial stability, and we  _need_  to get proactive about addressing it,  _now_.”  
  
“So what are you proposing, Kevin?” Bob Iger asked, stifling a yawn as he flipped through the first few pages of the social-media reports. He was getting too old for this shit; retirement couldn’t come soon enough at this point.  
  
“I need three to six months of delay on _Captain Marvel_ ,” Feige replied. “The script as-is isn’t progressive enough.”  
  
“What?” asked Alan Horn, nominally Feige’s direct boss. “It’s got a lady as the hero, and she’s tough, right?”  
  
“That’s no longer enough. The President made sure of that, and the numbers we saw from  _Black Panther_ proved it. I need to rewrite it to make her a goddamn lesbian, and I can’t afford more interference from up top, or we’re looking at the Tumblr people eating us alive. We’re already seeing negative coverage after we left the lesbian in Thor 3 on the cutting room floor, we need  _something_  to prove our social-justice bona fides, and fast, or we’re gonna be facing 24/7 outrage from the very social-media hype cycle that we rely on for half our PR these days. Given that our very business model relies heavily on maintaining a constant social-media buzz to reinforce brand identity and awareness of our product among the public, we need to  _fix_  this, and fast. Trump’s already tripled viewership for the DC TV shows,  _Agents of SHIELD_  is collapsing and we need to get on the fucking ball, now.”  
  
For fuck’s sake, Iger needed a coffee, and not the decaf crap his admin kept trying to force on him. “So how does making our big branded figure a gay help us?”  
  
“It gives us the first openly LGBT superhero in the movies,” Feige explained. “They got the first female protagonist in a watchable superhero movie with  _Wonder Woman_ , that already did a shitload of damage and stole a big chunk of our social-media presence--if they’d had the balls to make her gay, too, we’d be fucked. This will get it all back for us and then some. You saw the way the Tumblr suckers responded to  _Black Panther_. People  _loved_ that movie. They all had a favorite scene, a favorite character, a favorite line. Who can say that about, say,  _Avengers 2? Thor 2?_  People  _want_  the social justice hero, Bob, they love that shit and they’ll come out in droves to watch, they’ll come out in droves to  _pay_ for it.”  
  
“Won’t we lose Republicans?” Horn asked. “I mean, I get that the Keurig-smashing crowd would just get us more attention no matter what we do, but…”  
  
“No, I like this idea,” Iger interrupted. “Make up for the deplorables with repeat viewings by liberals. And count on Trump’s fanatical left-wing whatever to keep the Chinese from banning us for fear of him blowing his fucking head off and causing some economic mess or other. Risky, but sometimes in business you gotta be bold.”  
  
“Not just that,” Feige added, hauling up another ream and a half of paper. “Here’s some work on LGBT tolerance in America. Ever since the repeal of DOMA and the government dropping DADT, attitudes towards LGBT people have swung dramatically towards acceptance. There’s a good chance that most of the people who might refuse to watch because we add a lesbian would never have paid anyway.”  
  
“So you’re saying, we add the gays and get more attention on the Internet, and there’s not much risk?” Horn asked skeptically. “Can’t we just give them a woman and tout how feminist we are?”  
  
“That won’t be enough. And it isn’t taking a small risk, more that we’re proactively eliminating a risk and supporting the brand. There is a risk, but there’s  _guaranteed_ problems if we don’t deal with this fast.” Feige shook his head. “People are already talking about Perlmutter and what a fucking racist and sexist he is, all thanks to the President.”  
  
“We negotiated him away!” Horn protested. “He doesn’t even control the comics anymore, we got him as close to fired as possible!”  
  
“You think Tumblr gives a shit, Alan? Half the goddamn fanfic for  _Captain America_  is gay. Remember my presentation on Stucky and the possibilities that it indicated for future growth? We have a shitload of gay fans and our product needs to reflect that or we’re gonna see an implosion of support.”  
  
“I’m inclined to agree with Kevin, he’s making a good point,” Iger said before Horn could retort. “Kevin, what do you need?”  
  
“Three months, a case full of Red Bull, and two million dollars added to my production budget for  _Captain Marvel_. But once we announce an LGBT hero, and promise not to leave the footage out, we can cut that out of the ad budget and it won’t matter. Social media will do the job for us, and I have friends who can make sure it’s on TV news, too.”  
  
“Bob, we’re already in pre-production,” Horn objected. “Supposed to start shooting in weeks!”  
  
“It is unusual,” Iger admitted. “But it’s bold. And honestly, what that idiot in the Oval Office did was  _bold_ , whatever else you can say about it.” He jabbed a pen in Feige’s direction. “Go ahead, Kevin. Make the changes. You have  _two_  months, five million bucks, and not a second or a cent more.”  
  
Feige nodded with a tight grin. “Thank you, Bob. This corporation won’t regret your decision.”  
  
***  
  
 _June 21st._  
  
“Welcome back to  _DonnieTube_  for our somewhat regularly-scheduled D&D session,” I declare. Obama and Tiffany wave for the camera. “Joining me, the Dungeon Master, are my friends Anastasia Zinovieva, playing Cypher the changeling rogue, Vivian Clay, playing Veronica the half-elven psychic warrior, former President Barack Obama, playing Sir Barry the paladin, my kid, Tiffany Trump, playing Lady Jenna the warblade, and my other brat, Barron Trump, playing Star-Lord the Zookeeper, most broken character ever, and his six dinosaur pets.”  
  
“Seven, dad, I calculated my downtime days and had enough to train a  _Tyrannosaurus_.”  
  
I eye him. “Kid, you already have a  _Triceratops_ , two allosaurs, and three  _Deinonychus_ , you’ve got more than enough pets! You already score most of the kills anyway, try giving someone else a turn to shine!”  
  
He pouts. “I  _guess_...I mean, I could try a different character. I came up with this guy who’s part mind flayer and is set up for the Illithid Savant prestige class…”  
  
“Kid, I said you aren’t allowed to play tier 1 casters and that includes psionics.”  
  
“Right, but I want to eat people’s brains to steal their memories. And then go Thrallherd at higher levels so I can have a half-dragon ogre warmage thrall and an army of minions to order around!”  
  
Tiffany groans and her forehead  _thunks_  to the tabletop. Obama facepalms.  
  
“Kid, just play your damn character and try not to hog all the playtime,” I grouse. “I have enough problems with trying to bully Moscow Mitch into doing something good for this country without you trying to hog all the kills in D&D to the mix.”  
  
“Oh, all  _right_ ,” Barron mutters. “But can I have a tyrannosaurus?”  
  
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “ _Fine_. Whatever, kid. But it has to wait until next session.”  
  
“But Da-ad! The Rules say--”  
  
“ _You’re in the middle of the goddamn dungeon! We left off last session after you guys beat a miniboss, you haven’t had the opportunity to train another dinosaur, for crying out loud!_ ”  
  
Barron finally just grumbles and shuts up. With a sigh and an incoherent mutter, I turn back to Tiffany and Obama. “Did you two decide how you were going to split the loot?”  
  
“Uh, yes,” Obama says. “Sir Barry will take the magic sword and Lady Jenna can have the shield.”  
  
“Awesome. Right, so you’d just beaten Sheaf Bandon and his undead goons, but the true leader of the forces of darkness yet awaits in the lower levels of Arcayn’s Crypt. Are you prepared to find the source of the domestic terrorists plaguing the Free Socialist Workers’ Republic of Donnieland, brave proletarians?”  
  
“Damn right we are, maybe it’ll help the Revolutionary Leader get out of his funk,” Annie says with a pointed look. “Viv, you up for the usual flanking strategy?”  
  
“It’s less effective on undead,” Clay points out, still using crutches because of the damage to her leg in the Jerusalem incident. At least she’s recovering quickly. “Stick by Veronica’s side, Cypher. Safer that way.”  
  
“Aww, my hero,” Annie chuckles, and kisses Agent Clay, who goes pink and returns it. Tiffany d’awws. Barron makes a noise that sounds like “gross, cooties!”.  
  
“Alright, then, if everybody’s ready…” I eye the table, and Obama and Tiffany nod. “OK. After looting the despicable propaganda-mongering necromancer Sheaf Bandon’s corpse, you’ve found a link to the source of the human-supremacists who have repeatedly attacked the workers and farmers of Donnieland. Here’s the map...and the letter…” I pass over two printouts, one to Tiffany and one to Obama. “Now, if you want to—”  
  
Fatima raps on the door as she opens it. “Donnie, I hate to interrupt, but McConnell’s threatening to block the  _No More Tax Havens Act_  if it makes the Senate.”  
  
 _Fuck_  Moscow Mitch. “Oh, that little bitch...OK, take ten, everybody but Annie. Barack, how long can you stay here?”  
  
“I’ve got a talk in Richmond tomorrow at noon, but that’s it,” the ex-President says. “Take all the time you need, Mr. President.”  
  
“Thanks, Barack.” I stand, straightening my jacket. “Moscow Mitch is gonna regret fucking with my routine...”  
  
***  
  
 _June 25th. Vancouver._  
  
“OK, so is there anything else  _I_  need to give a fuck about as we head in to Comic-Con next month?” I ask, a good dozen actors reading off their marching orders as I lay my bullet-point sheet down. Berlanti double-checks his list.  
  
“Nah. I have something I gotta discuss with the  _Legends_ cast but that’s a surprise.”  
  
“Ooh, what kinda surprise?”  
  
“Birthday present for you, so don’t pry,” he warns me. I groan, but comply.  
  
“ _Fiiine_. Hey, Katie--”  
  
“Yeah?” three women say at once.  
  
“Cassidy. Uh, sorry, I should’ve been more specific.”  
  
“Not a problem,” the actress assures me. “What’s up?”  
  
“Can I have a word, just for a sec, in private?”  
  
“Uh...sure?” She’s cautious, which is fair. I  _am_ currently Donald Trump.  
  
“OK, so you know how some asshat leaked your private pictures on the Internet?” I whisper after I’ve closed the door. She nods hesitantly. “Right, so, I had the CIA track him down and send him to GITMO.”  
  
“You  _what_?” She grabs me by the shirt, and I gulp, momentarily marveling at how Greg’s been able to find so many preposterously beautiful and equally talented women. Cassidy’s a fucking angel and she’s a better actor than most big-name action stars to boot, what did Berlanti have to sacrifice to keep her on after  _Arrow_ season 4?  
  
“Extraordinarily rendited the guy who breached your privacy to GITMO. You know, the usual.” I shrug, slipping easily back into my fuck-it-all-I’m-Comrade-Donnie mode. “No waterboarding, don’t worry, I have moral objections to that, but I  _did_ order my guys to read Vogon poetry to him, and some stuff I wrote while high. On constant loop. 24/7.”  
  
She takes in my manic grin and shakes her head to clear it. “Um, thank you? That’s...wait, how did you even  _find out_  about that?”  
  
“Greg and I get really,  _really_  drunk on an infrequent but regular basis in each others’ company,” I reply. “He spilled about halfway into a gallon of Grey Goose. I was blathering to him about how I pissed on Reagan’s grave, I think. It’s kinda hard to remember because I was kinda blind drunk at the time.”  
  
“...fair enough. Uh, thank you, that’s...wow. Why?”  
  
“Because I like you, and any woman of your acting caliber who can tolerate the shitty writing you had to slog through in  _Arrow_  season 4 has the patience of a saint and deserves whatever I can get you as a thank-you for sticking around.”  
  
“...OK, fair point, season 4 was like pulling teeth.” She shakes her head. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. President.”  
  
“Don’t mention it, it was the least I could do.”  
  
Berlanti tears the door open and grabs my arm. “Comrade Donnie, I mean, President Trump, I just got word from my intern, you’re gonna want to see this.”  
  
“What? Did Vlad try something?” Cassidy tails me in, and Berlanti puts a tablet computer on the table.  
  
“All of you gather around,” the producer says, and within five seconds I have three fantastically beautiful women crowding around me as I and the actors jockey for position behind Berlanti. I really should find this a lot more awkward, but between the two beers I drank earlier and the stress of being President and all the other bullshit I’ve got going on, I can’t muster up the will to care.  
  
Well, OK, Caity Lotz’s muscular shoulders are pretty distracting. But still, when Berlanti puts on the video, I laser-focus on that.  
  
Mostly because it’s _so freaking insane_.  
  
“ _NRA TV and PureFlix present: Holy Avenger!_ ” blares the soundtrack, as a cheesy logo splatters about the screen. We open with what looks like Kevin Sorbo, vapidly staring into the middle distance. “ _This used to be a beautiful, Christian nation,_ ” our presumable protagonist intones. “ _But now...we’re under siege_.” Shots of burning flags, masked militiamen with hammer and sickle bandanas, a burning Nativity scene. “ _The insane President, a tool of the Devil, has incited a campaign of persecution against Christianity in America, in thrall to the homosexual agenda and the dark hand of Satan working through perverts trying to sneak into ladies’ restrooms disguised as women. But there’s one man who still stands against them!_ ” Closeup of Sorbo. “ _John Walker is_ THE HOLY AVENGER _, returning from exile and missionary work to save America with his heroic fighting skills and his trusty ‘45!_ ” Sorbo in a tacky white costume with a red Christian cross on the front, and a white bandanna and mask--unfortunate choice of costume, really. Action and the sound of a choir singing as he punches people dressed as Antifa guys and a man in a rainbow shirt.  
  
I reach forwards and pause the video on guys with guns throwing a bearded guy in a dress out of a bathroom. Several of the actors are chuckling. “You have  _got_ to be shitting me, Greg.”  
  
“I wish I was. They’re saying it’s an ‘antidote’ to our ‘homosexual agenda propaganda’.”  
  
“Well, fuck them. We’re gonna make the Arrowverse even  _gayer_ just to spite ‘em.” I look around; Lotz looks pissed, Amell is snickering at the idiocy of the trailer, Cassidy and McGrath are somewhere between disgusted and amused, and Maines--  
  
Nicole Maines, the trans actress Greg and I hired to play our trans superheroine in season 4, is on the brink of tears. I follow her gaze, see the tablet and more importantly the frame I paused it on (dipshit that I am), and flip it over. “Give us the room,” I say, and the chuckling stops as Amell and the others realize what just happened. “Greg, Nicole, you stay.”  
  
“It’s OK,” Maines tries to protest. “That kind of thing is normal--”  
  
“It damn well  _shouldn’t_ be,” I retort. The rest of the actors file out, some patting Maines gently on the shoulder as they go. Berlanti rolls back his chair, expression stormy. “You want a hug?”  
  
“I...yeah. A hug would be nice.”  
  
I wrap her in Trump’s body’s arms, and if there’s one good thing I’ll say about this decaying waste of life, it’s got good long arms. “I’m the President of the fucking United States,” I growl, “and I’m going to protect you, and every other trans person in this goddamn country.” I squeeze, then pull back. “You know--I wish I was you, you know?”  
  
“Mr. President?”  
  
“20 years old and already with a steady gig? OK, so maybe the million dollars I wired to your family was an excessive sign-on bonus, but still, I’ve seen the budget, you’re making decent cash even after tax. Here I am, born in ‘96, but I’m sort of 22, I think, because I got sent back in time and into this waste of life’s body--look, it’s complicated and kinda irrelevant and I shouldn’t tell you but I am because I can’t find good meds for my ADHD and also I knocked back a couple brewskis before showing up here, point is, I’ve got your back and I want you to be happy, OK? This bigoted bullshit is the last gasp of a dying breed, and I promise you, not one person will hurt you on my watch. In fact--Greg, can we add  _more_ trans characters going forwards? Played by trans actors?”  
  
“I’m looking into trans male actors for  _Batwoman and the Birds of Prey_ ,” my compatriot confirms. “Which reminds me, Marketing has a ‘Birds of Gay’ T-shirt they want you to start wearing, Donnie. Nicole, if anyone targets you on social media, you come  _directly_ to me and to Audrey in Social-Media Management, and we’ll help out. If you get insults or threats privately, send them to Comrade Donnie here.”  
  
“I’ll have anyone who threatens you arrested,” I promise. “Anyone who tries to hurt you, I’ll have them extraordinarily rendited to South Georgia to count penguins for a few years. Somebody hassles you, I’ll have the CIA fuck up their Internet and the IRS go after them like a pit bull. I am sick and  _fucking_ tired of bigotry, nobody should be harassed just for who they are. Well, except for Moscow Mitch, but that’s because he’s a power-mad sociopath.”  
  
“I, uh…” She blinks, twice, and runs a hand over her eyes with a sniffle. “You probably shouldn’t do those things, but thank you, Mr. President.”  
  
“You call me Donnie,” I insist. “Comrade Donnie. All my friends do.”  
  
“...Thanks, uh, Comrade Donnie.” She hugs me, and I sort of half-expected it so I catch her not too awkwardly. “I just...I’m sorry for the disruption, but sometimes things just hit me, you know?”  
  
“Believe me, it’s not a problem,” Berlanti tells her. “Now, as your boss, sort of, I’m ordering you to go out and get yourself something good to eat, on my dime.”  
  
“Thank you, I…” She squeezes me again and I feel lost. “It means a lot. The support.”  
  
“We do what we can,” I manage. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say, usually I just bribe people, send a gift basket, or get really drunk.”  
  
“Hug’s fine,” Maines assures me. “Um. About what you said--that you’re, uh, 22?”  
  
“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat as she pulls back. “So...Greg knows this. And Vinnie, Mattis, Mueller, Annie, Fatima, Mrs. Vinnie, Benanti, and Leigh. Pretty sure McGrath knows but I can’t remember at the moment. But, I’m not actually Trump. I’m a dead kid born in ‘96. I took a nosedive on the pavement outside my dorm room and woke up a week before inauguration day.”  
  
“Wait, the day you threw a couch out of your penthouse?”  
  
“Yeah, damn lucky it didn’t kill anybody. Still had to pay for that cop car, boy was that a little debacle.”  
  
“OK...this is, um...making a surprising amount of sense.” She licks her lips. “Why the couch?”  
  
“I was freaking the fuck out, like, just completely losing my shit. Melania had fucked off because I don’t pay her enough to deal with my mental issues, so I threw a vase at that racist fucker Bannon when he quoted the 14 words at me and tried to flip the couch lengthwise while he was being hauled out to get the forehead cut seen to, and sort of fucked up and the couch went all the way out the window.” I wince at the memory. “Then I punched the wall, dislocated three of my knuckles, and once they calmed me down I had to piss and had a total meltdown in the bathroom, kicked the seat off of Trump’s gold-plated toilet. Nearly busted my big toe, was walking on a bruise for a few days.  
  
“Then I realized what being President meant and I slipped a guy a shitload of money and some drugs to play the Soviet anthem at my inauguration. And the rest....well. Here we are.”  
  
“Jesus,” she manages.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You threw a vase at Steve Bannon.”  
  
“In my defense, I was losing my mind and he quoted a neo-Nazi at me.”  
  
“I mean, I’m surprised you had the restraint to  _just_ throw a vase at him. Steve Bannon? I don’t know  _what_ I would’ve done.”  
  
“Well, he’s a racist sack of shit and a total slimeball, and now he’s running racist agitprop over at Breitbart. Hey. You OK?”  
  
“Yeah. Thanks, um, for the hug, Mr. President.”  
  
“You call me Donnie. Or Comrade Donnie. All my friends do.”  
  
She gives me a hesitant smile. “Uh, thanks, Donnie.”  
  
She heads out, sparing one last glance for me at the door. When she leaves, I turn to Berlanti.  
  
“How do we respond, Greg?”  
  
“This could be a propaganda goldmine if you’re OK with using it for that brand identity crap,” Berlanti says. “Ours is good theirs is bad.”  
  
“One, do we even want to dignify this crap with a response? Two, I’m leery of overdoing the we-are-the-progressive-guys propaganda without backing it up. Look how much of a flame war that started with Star Wars.”  
  
“Fair. This is  _PureFlix_ , how many people give a shit…” Berlanti makes a face at the tablet. “I want to go hardcore, we are the LGBT station. I’ve got a shortlist of trans male actors, by the way.”  
  
“Hit me,” I reply, taking a seat. “Let’s see who we can fit in and where. I want this franchise to be gayer than a Pride parade…”  
  
***  
  
 _June 27th._  
  
“Freedom of religion is a core American principle,” I say, Rabbi Wise from that Jewish charity that keeps emailing me on my left, Rashida Tlaib on my right, and Comrade Bernie and that funny Satanist dude who held a gay marriage over Fred Phelps’s grave at my back. “It is my firm belief that the government of the United States of America should eschew any form of endorsement or establishment of anything approaching a state religion. Therefore, it is the opinion of the Comrade Donnie administration that H.J. Resolution 396, the 1956 law that enforces a Christian-inspired slogan as our official national motto, is unconstitutional. Since Moscow Mitch is in the pocket of Christofascists and corrupt televangelists, he’s refused to let Comrade Bernie’s proposal for a repeal of that law through. As Moscow Mitch is being a little bitch again, I’m going to let  _him_ do the hard work of defending this odious law against a suit brought by the Satanic Temple, a religious-freedom advocacy group led by this nice dude here, guy called Lucien Greaves.” I pat Greaves on the back with a broad grin, and he offers the press a friendly smile and a wave “Chill dude, great taste in brewskis.”  
  
With a 6-3 liberal majority on the Court, HJR 396 is basically fucked, but I do like rubbing it in. “Taking a stand for religious freedom with me are my good Comrade Senator Bernie Sanders of Vermont, Representative Rashida Tlaib of Michigan, and this rabbi who I had speak at my party thing last year, she’s chill, really cool perspective on philosophy. And my bro Lucien Greaves, of course.” I pat Greaves on the back again. “MAGA First Amendment! MAGA freedom!”  
  
“And that same first amendment gives  _me_ the right to call you a raving lunatic who gives us hard-working American Satanists a bad name, Mr. President,” says Greaves.  
  
“That it does!” I reply with a big grin. “And I can say right back that I’m a stable genius! Ain’t that swell? Anyway, I love free speech, and I love freedom of religion, because I have no god but Lady Liberty, and no idol but Old Glory.” I turn and salute the flag with military precision. Bernie and Tlaib are openly pinching the bridges of their noses. “That flag stands for something. Freedom. Equality. The right to say what you like, worship whoever or whatever you like or even nothing at all, to take to the streets and protest the government’s actions to make your displeasure known. That is the promise of the United States of America, and I will not see any one religion or religious group given primacy or even an illusion of primacy over the others, because the First Amendment is one of the few things I hold sacrosanct. MAGA America! MAGA Equality!”  
  
“Uh, Mr. President,” says the new Fox News reporter hesitantly (Lacey Dawes is out in Britain doing some digging on Boris Johnson for CNN, her new employer; I relented on my “Only Lacey from Fox” rule and let the new one in), “Do you, in fact, worship Satan--that is, Lucifer, Beelzebub, the Prince of Darkness?”  
  
“Nah, that hail Satan stuff is just for fun. It  _really_  pisses off Pence. I’m an atheist, see. I believe that there is nothing after death but a cessation of existence. All that matters is our lives, those which we choose to lead. And in my view, we have as thinking creatures a moral imperative to leave the world in a better state than we found it, not to mention to do well by our fellow humans in the intervening years.  
  
“And, well, like I said, I love Lady Liberty, because I have no god but the good old US of A. MAGA America! MAGA Socialism!”  
  
Bernie facepalms. Greaves is chuckling. The reporter looks like she’d rather not continue, but speaks up again. “And, um, unrelated subject, I’ve been told to ask you what your opinion on the new Star Wars movie is?”  
  
“Which one, the unnecessary but decent until the last 20 or 30 minutes Han Solo origin movie, or the incoherently written mess from December that bored me to sleep? As long as we’re talking about meaningless bullcrap, I liked Solo just fine until it stopped being a cool heist movie with fun but screwed-up characters and became another ‘U MUST BE HERO’ entry. Basically, when Lando leaves it starts to suck.  _The Last Jedi_  had at least five too many endings, the climactic fight scenes all sucked, the boring nu-Vader is still boring and nonthreatening, the bad guys in general are just nonthreatening jokes, the heroes are all unlikable, Rose was a pretty good character until a third of the way through when the idiot writers ran out of ideas and turned her into a tour guide, the social commentary was bush-league and I find it ironic that the so-called heroes prioritized temporarily saving alien horses over saving literal slaves when ‘the heroes forget to save a slave’ was literally a key part of Darth Vader’s origin story--overall, I took Barron to see it because he was bitching at me and it was a waste of cash. Disney, step up your fucking game and include an LGBT main character in one of your movies already, it’s like you’re stuck in the ‘80s.” I shake my head. “I hate the fucking ‘80s. Reagan hellscape. Anyway, does anybody have a  _substantive_  question?”  
  
Hands rise. I point to one at random. “You, MSNBC.”  
  
“What exactly is the new national motto going to be, Mr. President?”  
  
“ _E Pluribus Unum_. The unofficial motto and a statement that truly in my opinion defines our America. Out of many peoples, we have become one. Out of many states, we have become one.  
  
“We are the USA. United. Free. Indivisible and eternal.  _That_  is the power, the glory, and the legacy that we should recognize--not some random religion out of the metric shitload in the world.”  
  
Within two hours, a fundamentalist called Rick Wiles is openly calling for my death on the Internet and when questioned by a local news crew openly prays for ‘Islam terrorists’ to ‘sacrifice the Tool of Satan to their dark master’.  
  
At least I’m pissing off the right people.  
  
***  
  
 _June 30th._  
  
“America’s children are the future of this great nation,” I blather to the press, dressed in a ridiculous frilly baby costume, complete with giant pacifier on a necklace around my neck and a big fake rattle. Fatima can barely keep a straight face as she watches me from the sidelines. “Without kids, America would cease to exist! And our kids need parents, as many parents as possible taking as good care of them as possible, to survive and thrive.  
  
“But capitalism hates kids! The corrupt corpo establishment has been spending dirty super-PAC money to keep our new parents locked in the rat race! We NEED six months of paid paternity and maternity leave for all professions to ensure that our great new parents are able to focus on their children, as the great rebel Satan intended!  
  
“Also, like, every other developed country gives bigly more paternity and maternity leave than we do, it’s about time we grabbed the corpos by the throats and made them invest in our kids. So get out there and read up on Comrade Bernie’s  _Parental Leave Adjustment Act_ , or as I call it the Make Parental Leave Great Again Act.” I scratch my ass. “Now does anybody have any questions? Because this outfit, uh, yeah, bad decision.”  
  
Lacey Dawes is literally crying with laughter, her expensive-looking French beret stuffed into her mouth to keep from drowning out my little speech as she shakes in place. She raises a hand as the rest of the press corps tries to find their jaws. I’ve been so gentle, letting them get used to my random dictator outfits, I guess they couldn’t handle this level of Comrade Donnie madness.  
  
“Yeah, Lacey?”  
  
It takes her a minute to calm down enough to take the hat out of her mouth. “Oh my god. Oh my god this is funnier than your nudes.”  
  
“Funnier than the naked State of the Union?” I ask.  
  
“...not quite,” she admits with a wheezing chuckle. “OK. How the Hell do you plan to get this done?”  
  
“Same as always. Participatory democracy. I will rely on the popular will of the American People as they write to and make demands of Congress to get this bill passed so I can sign it. I will see the workers of America given the respect and benefits that they deserve. And I will see our people, our nation,  _fight_ for those rights! Because I am nothing if not a servant of the People, and I want to see our America become the best it can be, for all Americans, a people united in their love of freedom and their willingness to do the intellectual work to preserve that freedom.  
  
“Someone once said freedom isn’t free. And that’s true! You gotta learn, teach yourself about the issues, become a well-informed voter, or the lying crooks like The Donald’ll trick you into picking your own pocket for ‘em. But together, we can build a brighter tomorrow for our people! That is what MAGA Socialism stands for. Our people coming together, workers of America uniting to throw off the chains of the corpo regime and forging ourselves into a collective weapon to destroy corporate authoritarian plutocracy, and a shield to protect and preserve our revolution. In the name of Honest Abe, Ben Franklin, and the Constitution of the United States of America, we must come together to become the best-informed democracy on the planet! MAGA equality!”  
  
Lacey nods along. “Fair enough. Hey, do you mind a personal question?”  
  
“Sure.” I mean, she’s earned it, putting up with me so much, though I would rather focus on substance. “Just one, I want to get out of this outfit. Really bad wardrobe decision.”  
  
“OK, fine. What do you think of the new  _Star Trek_?”  
  
I groan. “Oh, I could go on for fucking  _hours_...but Yeoh, Wiseman, Isaacs, Jones, and Rapp are so much better than the shit material they’ve been given it’s not even funny. Alex Kurtzman is a fucking incompetent, so are his fucking sidekicks Berg and harberts. But then again, nothing Alex Kurtzman’s ever done has been at all watchable, fuck him.” I shake my head. “Would it have  _killed_ them to get someone competent? Like that dude who wrote  _The Yiddish Policemen’s Union_ , or Ron Moore--well, Ron Moore with someone to stop him and say ‘no, Ron, a mix of god-is-real and rando luddite messaging is a  _bad_  idea, mkay’, let’s just admit that the Battlestar Galactica reboot ended with a whimper, and really in my opinion it went downhill after season 2 because the writers had no fucking clue what to do and they wasted perfectly good characters with Admiral Cain and Gina-6, just saying.”  
  
I pause for breath. “So, yeah, uh, long story short. Alex Kurtzman is a waste of life. Everything about STD sucks except the actors, who are by and large way better than the crappy, gay-fridging, neocon wankfest, straight-up racist bullshit that makes up the show proper.”  
  
“Wait, racist?”  
  
“Uh, yeah. Leaving aside the low diversity of the cast, the story goes out of its way to attempt to justify Burnham’s virulent bigotry towards the Klingons. I’m not kidding, it’s like something out of feverish far-right propaganda; the Klingons are portrayed as insane religious-fanatic orc-men who only comprehend extreme violence and hate the Federation for being free and socially progressive. They follow their crazy ultranationalist Federation-hating leader in his cavernous old spaceship as he demands asceticism and a return to ‘traditional values’ and are completely unreasoning monsters who eat and torture people at the drop of a hat.  
  
“I don’t mind villains doing bad things, but if your message was supposed to be that Burnham was wrong to say that the Klingons ‘only understand violence’ and that she’s not being racist it’s just their ‘culture’, among other alt-right propaganda phrases,  _you did it exactly the wrong fucking way, Kurtzman_. Great fucking job. You made  _Star Trek_  endorse right-wing xenophobia. And people said that Archer threatening to piss on the sacred trees was the worst thing to happen to Trek…” I shake my head. “That answer your question, Lacey?”  
  
“Uh, yeah. Wow, never knew you were so opinionated, Donnie.”  
  
“Believe me, Vinnie had to embargo the topic in private because it was getting impossible to work with me otherwise. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want out of this diaper.”  
  
I drop the mic and storm out, minions converging to escort me back to the Oval Office bathroom so I can get changed.  
  
“Glad that’s over with, this outfit was a mistake,” I mutter. “Annie, get me on the line to New York. Time to bring out the big guns for Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.”  
  
Cortez was fifty points ahead in the primary poll I had quietly run last week. It’s gonna be a fun rest of the year.


	7. Great and Unmatched Wisdom!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comrade Donnie fucks up, and his mental health issues become more obvious as he loses control...
> 
> Also, Comrade Donnie returns to comic-con!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: An attempted white-supremacist terrorist attack takes place in this, references to sexual trafficking.

_July 4th, 2018._  
  
“MAGA SOCIALISM!” I bellow into my mic. The thousands of people thronging in the National Mall roar their approval.  
  
“ ** _MAGA SOCIALISM! MAGA EQUALITY! MAGA LIBERTY!_** ”  
  
“Yes indeed! Happy Independence Day!” I reply with a grin. “When we forged this great nation, with liberty and justice for all, we didn’t exactly do it so well the first couple of times. The Articles of Confederation were very bad, weak and useless, left us with a financial crisis, sad! So Ben Franklin had to lock a bunch of old white dudes in a room until they figured out the Constitution to make a less fucked up union. The Constitution I think still has that wording that the filthy Southern slavocrats, may they rot in hell, insisted on putting in so they could rig elections by counting their slaves as three-fifths of a person. Fuck those guys! We need to specifically amend the constitution to explicitly state that that ‘compromise’ was evil and shouldn’t be there anymore! MAGA freedom!  
  
“Anyway, we’ve fucked up a lot, you know. Slavery, genocide and ethnic cleansing of Native Americans, invading Mexico to spread slavery, Chinese exclusion, anti-Catholic and anti-Irish nut jobs running for President, comically evil capitalists, Jim Crow, concentration camps for Japanese immigrants, forcing the Shah on Iran, Richard Nixon, Operation Condor, tacitly OKing Pol Pot to spite the Vietnamese, everything to do with Ronald Reagan, backing that sadistic fucker Pinochet, invading Iraq for no good reason under the Bushleaguer, backing Israel even when Netanyahu was being comically evil, our cops shooting unarmed black kids...yeah, we’ve done some bad, bad shit. But, we’re getting better! Twenty Independence Days ago, gay people couldn’t even have sex legally in many states! Five Independence Days ago, they couldn’t get married! So, you know, progress! We’re gonna get better, we’re gonna look at ourselves and choose to be better people, so that we really live up to the ideals of our glorious Constitution.  
  
“MAGA CONSTITUTION!”  
  
“ ** _MAGA CONSTITUTION! MAGA FREEDOM!_** ” the crowd chants back.  
  
“As we continue on into another year of FREEDOM, we must constantly push ourselves to be better, to make our nation better! We must erase the power of the Family, Doug Coe’s evil mafia-esque ‘christian’ organization that for decades has helped crooked politicos cover up their sex scandals! I am open about my sex scandals! I fucked Stormy Daniels and a bunch of Playboy models, although I’m pretty sure they only agreed out of pity! I also slept with my press secretary in Israel after I nearly got killed a few months ago, she’s amazing, Fatima’s so beautiful, so bigly wonderful, just the best. Honesty is good for America. We must stem the tide of dark money infecting our political system! We must break the back of evangelical, fundamentalist influence on our politics, our society, and in foreign nations--these psychopaths, these fundie hacks, they egged on those nuts in Uganda who tried to make being gay a capital crime! They want to turn America into The Handmaid’s Tale, they’re like christian Taliban and they hate our freedom, they hate our America, they want to enslave our women and kill our bigly beautiful LGBT people and they hate our bigly great Jews and our bigly brave Muslims and our Buddhists and Hindus and atheists, and Fuck Mike Pence is one of their agents! Down with Fuck Mike Pence, glory to our bigly beautiful freedom! MAGA Liberty! THINK FREE OR DIE!”  
  
“ ** _MAGA LIBERTY! THINK FREE OR DIE!_** ” I feel a little hypocritical considering that my supporters who I urge to think free are parroting my insane slogans. Maybe I should tell them not to parrot me?  
  
“We must surgically erase any statue or monument that positively remembers the Confederacy, because the Confederacy was an evil authoritarian shithole run by insane, cartoonishly evil slavocrats clinging desperately to an outdated and morally bankrupt system. Tear down the statues, remove the plaques, replace them with heroes of the Underground Railroad like Harriet Tubman and heroes of the Union cause like Honest Abe and General Grant!”  
  
“ ** _MAGA FREEDOM! MAGA LINCOLN! MAGA LINCOLN! MAGA LINCOLN!_** ” the crowd chants loyally.  
  
“And we’re gonna break the payday loan industry to heel, too! Those sons of bitches, I gotta tell you, it’s a horrible thing, really horrible, these corrupt greedy rich bastards make their money by scamming people who’re having a tough time, squeezing our workers by offering loans with interest rates above a thousand percent, it’s a terrible thing, people, so terrible, and it’s gonna stop. We’re gonna  _make_ ’em stop. For America, for the People! We will end the cycle of debt that the corrupt fat-cat scum keep trying to trap our farmers and workers in, we will end loan sharks, we will support anyone who’s having a hard time, we will fix our country and fuck over the rich shitheads! MAGA Syndicalism! MAGA Revolution!”  
  
“ **MAGA SYNDICALISM! MAGA REVOLUTION!** ”  
  
I fling my arms out like a showman. “And THEN! We must tax the rich! We must prevent the craven plutocratic capitalist-imperialist bourgeoisie from destroying our great nation from within! We will take a hundred billion dollars from Bill Gates, leaving him with like seven billion to do whatever he wants with. We will take a hundred billion dollars from Jeff Bezos and distribute it to the people! We will end the billionaire class with a wealth tax--and I promise you, my people, I am not exempting myself here! I will pay higher taxes, too, because it’s not right that even  _after_ my tax hike I can still buy a small country! Tax the rich! MAGA Socialism!”  
  
The crowd roars their approval, chanting  ** _MAGA SOCIALISM!_**  over and over.  
  
“AND  **THEN**!” I bellow into my mic. The crowd slowly quiets. “And THEN! We will repossess Facebook! No more will Mark Zuckerberg be allowed to pal around with Russian agents and give creepy fascists a free hand on his garbage platform! NO MORE will Fakebook propagate fake news, like they did in Myanmar which sparked the attempted genocide of the Rohingyas, like they do with fake ads claiming that AIDS drugs don’t work, all sorts of bullshit hurtful lies like that that Zuckerberg and his creepy buddies spread for profit, we won’t let them do that! Instead, a council of Facebook employees, elected by every worker from management all the way down to the content moderators and basic coders, will run the company! And we will do the same for  _every_ other company in this nation, until every company, every business, is run  _by_ the people,  _for_ the people, and  _of_ the people, just like our glorious US of A! We will bring the light of democracy into the workplace! We will make our nation free, and then we will make the  _world_ free! Because WE ARE THE GREATEST NATION ON EARTH!  **AND WE MUST NOT REST UNTIL THE ENTIRE WORLD IS FREE AND _EVERY_ AMERICAN SHARES EQUALLY IN OUR PROSPERITY!**  
  
“ ** _MAGA SYNDICALISM! WORKPLACE DEMOCRACY FOREVER!_** ”  
  
The crowd descends into thunderous applause and chants of  ** _TAX THE RICH!_**  and  ** _MAGA SYNDICALISM!_**. And I bask in the glory.  
  
What a time to be alive!  
  
***  
  
 _Thirty minutes later._  
  
“I thought we weren’t telling people!” Fatima hisses as she tugs me into a closet.  
  
“I’m sorry, it just slipped out!” Goddamn it, I feel like a fucking asshole. “Jesus, I fucked up bad this time. I’m so sorry, Fatima, I literally was not thinking, that was not my thing to just blurt out and I totally understand if you never want to see my ugly mug again. I’ll hit social media and take the heat…”  
  
“I don’t  _mind_ , I can handle it; I’m  _your_ press secretary, after all, and I  _told_ you that I wanted to make a statement sometime soon. But I’d have appreciated some warning so I could manage the PR fallout!’’  
  
“...wait, you’re not…”  
  
“I mean, I made it  _clear_ that I didn’t actually care either way about being open about it...though we still haven’t figured out what exactly this thing between us is…”  
  
“I think you’re hot,” I blurt out. “Like, you can  _rock_ that Soviet-themed headscarf you got last month. And you’re basically the only woman I interact with regularly who actually likes me.”  
  
“That’s not true, Tiffany likes you.”  
  
“...yeah but she’s my...Trump’s...my  _daughter_!”  
  
“Liz Wilson...OK, she doesn’t  _like_ you, she worries about you though...Annie...OK she doesn’t so much like you as she likes your policies. Also she may be femme but she’s definitely 100% lesbian. Katie McGrath likes you, though!”  
  
“I’m paying her a shitload of money and she works on the other side of the continent. Also, she’s cute, and nice, and beautiful and all, but she’s not…” I struggle for words. Fatima leans back, eyes soft. “She’s not  _you_ , you know? I dunno. I can’t explain it.”  
  
“I guess no one can,” Fatima rasps. Then she kisses me.  
  
Fortunately for everybody involved, a sharp knock on the door stops us while she’s wrestling with my pants zipper and I’m trying to figure out how to unhook her bra without taking off her dress or looking at what I’m doing. “Are you decent?” Vinnie asks through the door.  
  
There’s a panicked and momentarily painful couple of moments as Fatima and I spring apart in the dark confines of the closet, hurriedly adjust our clothes, and try to control our breathing. “We are now!” Fatima manages as I curse my throbbing elbow.  
  
“Anybody need a shower?”  
  
We look at each other in the dim light. “No?” I say cautiously.  
  
“Good. Pence is on Fox News screaming about communist demons and witches. You’d both better get out here.”  
  
Goddamn it, just when I was pretty sure Fatima and I both knew exactly what we wanted to do.  
  
***  
  
 _July 6th. Room 317, Russell Senate Office Building, Washington, DC._  
  
“How the fuck is this even possible?” Mitch McConnell snarled. “ _He promised to raise fucking taxes! How the FUCK ARE THESE GULLIBLE FUCKING RUBES STILL SUPPORTING HIM?_ ” He grabbed a ream of papers off of his solid oak desk and threw them into an antique bookcase, sending loose sheets flying everywhere. Two Congressional pages quavered in the doorway as Paul Ryan and Reince Preibus shared a worried look.  
  
“Mitch, people are pissed,” Preibus began cautiously. “They’re tired of our usual rhetoric as much as they were of Hillary’s.”  
  
“This is a capitalist fucking country, Reince,” McConnell hissed, spittle flecking his lemon-sucking grimace. “We  _hate_ taxes here, it’s a fucking stereotype, for God’s sake.” He tore open his desk and pulled out a black-on-orange logo. “You see this, Reince? You see this shit?”  
  
“...Fyre Festival? That scam that turned into a mess in the Bahamas last year?”  
  
“Damn straight. Here’s the thing, Reince-- _nobody fucking used to care_  about the shit that commie motherfucker talks about. The guy who cooked this piece of shit up, Billy McFarland? He’s a fucking scammer. Anyone with half a fucking brain can tell just from talking to him that he’s a fucking con artist running a con job, and anyone with a single fucking brain cell could tell that his so-called festival was a scam. But they called him a  _bold entrepreneur_ , Reince. He was a fucking  _hero_.”  
  
“Yeah, until he got caught embezzling money!”  
  
“When you play fast and loose with the rules, you win some, you lose some.” McConnell was one to talk, considering how he’d tried to steal a Supreme Court seat. “People  _love_ this con, Reince. They love to think that they could be rich and powerful, just gotta keep gambling. I built my fucking  _career_ on suckering the fools that fell for that bullshit, Reince. And now, this backstabbing sack of shit comes outta goddamn nowhere, and in a year and a half he has those fucking rubes eating out of his hand, siccing them on the very goddamn foundation of my career? I’ve been in this seat for thirty-three years, I’ve gutted those fucking rubes’ education and health care every fucking time, I’ve kept them poor and stupid for  _decades_ and they fucking  _love_ me for it, Reince!  _How is he doing this? WHY is he doing this?_ ”  
  
“I mean, there’s nothing wrong with using your natural talents to attract investors and generate wealth, anyone truly objectively exceptional will naturally rise to the top without government intervention,” Paul Ryan started, and was ignored.  
  
“He’s getting power this way, Mitch--”  
  
“Yeah, in the short term! He can’t possibly believe this revolution bullshit, and it’d be so much goddamn simpler to pander to the sheep and pick their worthless pockets while they’re distracted! You can’t pick their fucking pockets if they’re  _watching_ for it!”  
  
“Mitch, if this is about that poll, it’s got a pro-Democrat slant and the margin of error--”  
  
“ ** _WHO THE FUCK IS THIS AMY FUCKING MCGRATH?!?!?!_** ” McConnell screamed, picking a Bible off of his desk and throwing it out the door in his rage. The pages ducked, looked at each other, and fled in silence. “ ** _WHO???_**  That’s  _my_ seat, Reince!  _MINE_! I  _own_ those fucking suckers! I haven’t had a serious opponent in decades! Who the fuck is gonna vote for anyone other than me?  _HOW AM I BEHIND??? **HOW?**_ ”  
  
“We’re working on it, Mitch!” Reince pleaded. “Franklin Graham’s got the Family behind you, they’re gonna run a thousand dead-baby ads--”  
  
“I got fucking  _booed_ , Reince!” McConnell snarled, getting into the younger man’s personal space, and Preibus recoiled from the Senator’s bloodshot eyes as McConnell’s yellowed incisors snapped perilously close to the RNC chair’s face. “They called me ‘Moscow Mitch’! They were chanting, ‘Moscow Mitch is our bitch’! Fucking  _MOSCOW MITCH IS OUR BITCH_ , Reince! There were fucking veterans in that crowd! And gun nuts!  _Fucking gun nuts booed me_ , Reince!”  
  
“I mean, there  _was_ that leaked audio…”  
  
“Ohhh, don’t even get me  _started_ on that,” McConnell hissed. He ground his stained teeth as he paced back and forth, Ryan trying to make himself look as small as possible in the doorway. “It’s that bodyguard, Wilson. We gotta deal with him, too, Reince.”  
  
“How? The guy doesn’t take bribes!”  
  
“Then get him to fuck a hooker, get some photos, and blackmail the bastard, Reince, do I need to spell it out for you?”  
  
“We tried that, it didn’t work.”  
  
McConnell’s mouth opened and closed, the Senator’s eyes bulging with rage as he fought for breath. “ _Then find a sluttier whore, you moron. I don’t care what it takes, I want Donald Trump alone and adrift!_ ”  
  
“We could 25th him again,” Ryan suggested. “Pence could…”  
  
“ _Pence_ is barely fucking stable these days,” Preibus cut in. “He told me that Trump’s the Antichrist, looked fucking crazy when he said it, too. Like he really believed it. We put him in charge, he’s gonna fucking crack, and then we’re  _really_ fucked in the midterms.”  
  
“I suppose we could 25th him, too, and then I would be President?”  
  
“Are you nuts? That’s an obvious coup! We couldn’t keep the Party together for that, Murkowski is already defying Mitch on key votes and  _your_ House bleeds to the Democrats from farm seats every time the President puts a new video up for his fans!”  
  
“I like it,” McConnell snarled. It was still raspy, but less rabid animal and more man. “We gotta find an excuse. A sex scandal might not be enough, but if we don’t have to fake it it’d be a start.”  
  
“Mitch, he admitted to some kind of sex scandal at the Independence Day speech--”  
  
“Senator McConnell!” A disheveled, unshaven junior staffer stumbled into the doorway, face red from exertion. “You’re going to want to see this.”  
  
“Spit it out, you little shit,” McConnell rasped, picking up a glass of water to drink.  
  
“...uh, CNN just aired a tape of Representative King quoting a white-supremacist motto at a town hall last month, Senator, sir.”  
  
The glass shattered in McConnell’s hand, spilling water and traces of blood all over the Senator’s desk.  
  
***  
  
 _July 9th. Moscow, Russian Federation._  
  
Konstantin Yegorovich Kalinin cleared his throat. “ _Vozhd_ , we have successfully plugged the leak in Brazil. Temer is dead without naming his murderer, and Bolsonaro knows what we’ll do to his family if he crosses you.”  
  
“Excellent, Konstantin Andreivich,” Vladimir Putin replied, standing facing the Moskva outside of his window with his arms crossed behind his back. Kalinin didn’t even bother correcting his boss anymore. “You will live longer than your predecessors, I suppose.”  _God_ , Kalinin hoped he could last another week...it was high time he got out of Russia.  _Just one more week, and I’ll have the new papers..._  
  
Maybe the Argentines would take him. His grandmother had always talked about how those bastards had taken in a bunch of Nazis after the Great Patriotic War. Not the one who’d killed his grandfather, though. His grandmother had seen to that one, with her old meat-slicing knife with the oddly-shaped blade and carved handle. God, he’d loved that story as a kid.  _Babushka_ killing the Nazi with her meat-slicing knife, because she had little  _papa_ in her belly, and she’d gone for the Nazi like a rabid wolf. Kalinin had never really understood why  _babushka_ had been so specific about being like a rabid wolf.  
  
Now though...he thought of his little Dima and Masha, their mother dead of alcoholism and a ruined liver, and he knew what  _babushka_ had meant.  
  
It was high time he got the Hell out of Russia, before he got them all killed in a blind panic.  
  
“How is Operation Diamond Queen proceeding, Konstantin Andreivich?” Putin demanded. Kalinin cleared his throat and gathered himself.  
  
“Ah, we believe that we have made some progress on that front,  _Vozhd_ ,” Kalinin reported. “Senator McConnell is eager for any assistance that we can provide, and has offered a more reasonable settlement on the Ukraine issue if we can help him re-gain power. However, we are also having difficulty funding our operations--McConnell is doing what he can to sabotage the cyber-security defenses of the American voting system, but the sanctions are still in place and McConnell himself is at risk of losing his seat according to my sources. In short, we are having difficulty providing the support for the hacking operation that we  _need_ to reap the dividends of the McConnell connection.”  
  
“Will you correct it, Konstantin Andreivich?” The tone was deceptively calm, but Kalinin knew the veiled threat.  
  
“Of-of course,  _Vozhd_. We will be assisting certain, ah, friendly gentlemen in Poland and Hungary to manipulate their social-media networks, in exchange for certain financial agreements. This may be enough to support an operation against Trump’s counterintelligence services so that we may ruin Trump and replace him with McConnell’s favored candidate.”  
  
“I am hearing too many  _maybes_ , Konstantin Andreivich.” Putin’s voice was colder than Murmansk in mid-December. Kalinin was very glad that he’d used the bathroom before this meeting.  
  
“Rest assured,  _slavniy Vozhd_ , that I have made many contingency plans,” Kalinin promised.  _Contingency plans like getting the fuck out of this country._  
  
***  
  
 _July 13th. Windsor Castle, United Kingdom._  
  
“ _Stop fidgeting_ ,” Fatima hisses from the corner of her mouth. I sit on my hands so I stop fucking around with my tie as the old priest guy, some bishop or something, drones on.  
  
“I’m sorry, it’s hard enough sitting in front of a sex offender…”  
  
“ _Ssh_!” She gives me a pleading look, and I clam up for her sake. Corbyn, seated on my right, definitely heard, though, and he gives me a questioning look. I attempt to convey tell you later with my eyes. Fuck, I gotta find something to focus on. This place is all baroque shit, and my tux is way too fucking uncomfortable.  
  
I try focusing on Fatima, but she’s wearing a tight black dress and a white headscarf, and it doesn’t leave enough to my overactive imagination, or my memories of the Israel mess. I shift in my seat, leaning forwards a bit and hoping that I’m not blushing.  
  
I go to cross my legs just in case, and Fatima slaps me. “Did you listen to  _anything_ the Protocol office told you?” she hisses under her breath.  
  
“Yeah, I just didn’t expect you to be so distracting in that dress!”  
  
“ _Ssh_ ,” Corbyn pleads from my right. “ _Please, the groom’s already angry enough about using this for PR!_ ”  
  
I nod, biting my lip. Fatima’s blushing now, and I’m  _certain_  I am. The groom’s definitely shooting me a death glare, too. Fortunately the priest motherfucker is too wrapped up in his ceremonial bullcrap to notice.  
  
God, this was a fucking mistake. I can feel Prince Andrew’s creepy rapist eyes behind me, though it could just be my imagination projecting. Either way it makes my skin crawl.  
  
At least there’s free food when all this shit is over.  
  
When it is, Corbyn leads Fatima and me up to the happy couple so we can handle things last-minute. The Queen’s there, too--huh, I always thought she’d be taller, like her German cousins. Or maybe that’s just me being in Trump’s body.  
  
“Nice to meet you, your Majesty,” I greet the Queen with Fatima gripping my bicep extra hard to make sure I don’t fuck it up. “Lovely family you got here.”  
  
“Thank you, Mr. President,” she replies with a polite smile. “You and your lady friend look most wonderful.”  
  
“Heh, Fatima’s gorgeous, I know. Me, not so much.” Fatima coughs and squeezes my arm again, cheeks dark. “But seriously, you can be honest and say I’m an unholy lovechild of a beached whale and shaved orangutan.”  
  
Fatima elbows me in the ribs, but the Queen surprises everybody by letting out a genuine laugh at my joke. “Did you practice that one, Mr. President?”  
  
“Nah, spur of the moment, actually.” I nod to the bride and groom. “Your--Highness, right? And you’re a Highness now too?”  
  
“...it’s  _Royal_  Highness, more precisely,” the bride informs me. The groom nods with restrained politeness. A shadow briefly appears in one of the windows, and there’s a camera flash followed by a scream and a  _thud_. A paparazzo must’ve gotten past security. The groom’s face darkens, and the bride squeezes his hand as a warning.  
  
“Right, sorry, Royal Highness, Royal Highness. Look, I’m sorry we’re using your wedding as an attention-grabber for a PR event, really I am. Some sacrifices we make for our countries are just pains in the fucking ass.”  
  
Fatima elbows me  _hard_  in the ribs. The Queen’s husband looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. Corbyn groans. The bride and groom are horrified, as are the groom’s brother and sister-in-law.  
  
The Queen steps right up into my personal space, reaches up, and slaps me in the face.  _Hard_.  
  
“Ow!” I protest.  
  
“ _Mr._  President, you are a guest of our most loyal Prime Minister within our most fair country, and we  _will not_  stand for you using such language at our beloved grandson’s wedding! Are we understood?”  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” I confirm, cradling my stinging cheek. “Understood, ma’am. My apologies, ma’am. Won’t happen again, ma’am.”  
  
“Excellent.” She steps back and continues as if nothing had happened. “We hope that you and our most loyal Government can bring a swift and satisfying conclusion to this dreadful Brexit situation in a way which ensures the health and wellfare of our subjects. We furthermore believe that our grandson the Duke of Sussex wishes to express his thanks for your donation in his name.”  
  
“Uh, yes,” the younger Prince says, then clears his throat. “Thank you for the, uh, ten million dollars that you donated to Doctors Without Borders in my name, and the ten million you gave to UNICEF in Meghan’s.”  
  
“Hey, just doing my part, Royal Highness,” I tell him with a shrug. “I conned more money than that outta Mo Bone-Saw from Saudi Arabia--watch him, by the way, I’m gonna ruin his life soon. I rented out a floor of Trump Tower to him that I wired with more bugs than a KGB roach motel, and I have  _so_  much incriminating dirt on him--I think I’ll call him to gloat first, that oughta be fun.” I chuckle nastily. “Anyway, that’s twenty million going to good causes. Really great of you people to ask for charity donations, more rich people should be like you two. Your Majesty, your grandson’s a good dude.”  
  
“Why, thank you, Mr. President.”  
  
“Call it like I see it. Just like Andy here banged an underage sex slave provided by that pedo Jeffrey Epstein.”  
  
You can hear a pin drop. Every head slowly rotates to Prince Andrew, who’s going purple and sputtering incoherently. Then back to me.  
  
I’m pretty sure I’ve gone white as a sheet. “Uh. Didn’t mean to bring that up. Sorry, random neuron fire.”  
  
“ _I did not have proof at the time that she was under the legal age of consent in the jurisdiction that we were located in!_ ” Prince Andrew protests. “And in terms of  _emotional_  maturity, I  _firmly_  believe that she was quite advanced for her  _physical_  age...”  
  
“Oh my God,” the bride moans, and buries her face in her hands with a sob. The groom wraps an arm around her shoulders and glares daggers at me.  
  
“ _Andrew Albert Christian Edward!_ ” the Queen snarls. “ _Is this true?_ ”  
  
“Mother, I--I did not know for certain that she was underage, I’m told that Jeffrey paid her--”  
  
“Oh,  _fuck_ off!” I snap. “Jeffrey Epstein, one of the most notorious sex traffickers in the world? Guy who got busted and very nearly punished back in ‘ _08_  for trafficking girls, the first allegations out in ‘05? And trust me, I’m Donald Trump, he was  _very_  well-known in your and Trump’s social circles for his, shall we say,  _remarkable_  ability to procure very young and remarkably inexpensive women on a short notice. Don’t treat us like fucking morons, Andy.”  
  
“It was one night!” Andrew complains. “And she absolutely wanted it anyway!”  
  
“ _DONNIE, NO!_ ” Fatima screams as I throw the punch.  
  
The Prince reels as I hit him square in the eye, and the groom pulls the bride back while his brother grabs the Queen. Andrew yells with pain and lunges at me, catching me square in the torso as I try to regain my balance in Trump’s stupid body. His charge sends me stumbling back, and I lose my balance, Fatima and Corbyn screaming as I and the asshole Prince crash into a table--the one with the big-ass fancy cake.  
  
There is an  _explosion_  of confection and flour product, and the back of my head  _squidges_  in a soft pad of sugary dough. I flail at Andrew’s face, and he howls as I shove cake into what I think is his eye. He sits up, trying to clear his eyes, and I punch him right in the kisser. As he rolls off of me, I sit up and force myself to my feet--Corbyn and Fatima grab my shoulders and pull me back.  
  
“Donnie, what are you  _doing_?” Fatima begs me.  
  
“That son of a bitch--” I get no farther as Andrew takes a wild swing at me, I duck, and he overextends, stumbling into Corbyn and sending them both collapsing onto the hors d'oeuvres. “OK, look, I think we can still talk this--”  
  
“AAAARGHHH!!!!” the Prince screams, and half-lunges for my legs, tripping me onto Fatima, who falls back into the groom’s brother with a shriek. I pull myself back, kicking at Andrew, and rise…  
  
“STOP!” the groom demands, getting between us. “Both of--”  
  
Andrew’s already swinging at me as I throw a handful of cake that I grabbed from somewhere, and the groom stumbles into me with a groan, then collapses as I stagger back into the tangled mess of Fatima, the groom’s brother, and the groom’s sister-in-law. I push off, and this time  _I_  charge into Andrew, carrying him into the bowl containing several expensive bottles of chilled champagne, which shatter and explode with carbonation, soaking him. He shoves back, groping for my eyes as I try to get a good grip on his shoulders, and we stagger towards the door like drunken gorillas.  
  
“ _I’LL KILL YOU!_ ” Andrew screams as we collapse through the door onto the ground outside. “ _IT WAS ONE NIGHT OF FUN!_ ”  
  
“ _SHE WAS UNDERAGE AND BEING TRAFFICKED BY EPSTEIN!_ ” I howl back, and try to knee him in the balls as he gets on top of me and tries to throttle me. “ _You--ghgk! Ghrgkl--gnh!_ ” I get him in the gut, and he collapses, wheezing, and I gasp and hack for breath, trying to knee him again in the groin.  
  
There’s shouting in British accents and a lot of camera flashes, and Andrew’s hauled off of me, then I’m pulled to my feet. The Prince struggles, spitting and cursing in the arms of two burly men in red uniforms and funny black hats, presumably more of the same guys who’re holding me by the arms.  
  
The cameras flash so fast there isn’t even a strobe effect.  
  
***  
  
“ _WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?_ ” Fatima shouts, slapping me hard across the cheek. The Queen’s was harder, surprisingly enough. “ _DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW BADLY YOU JUST **FUCKED** THE PLAN?_  _Damn it_ , Donnie! Do you have  _any_ idea how much work Corbyn’s going to have to do just to salvage this disaster? Forget Brexit, forget a  _fucking_ deal, this is a diplomatic incident that could damage the  _Special Relationship_! You couldn’t keep it contained for  _five **fucking** minutes_?”  
  
“I’m so, so sorry,” I tell her with actual sincerity. “It just slipped out. I was reading Mueller and Comey’s briefing on Epstein yesterday…”  
  
“ _You are the President of the United States of America_. There are some times when decorum is just  _called_ for!” She shakes her head with a huff and pinches the bridge of her nose.  
  
“Great work, kid,” Vinnie comments, ripped arms crossed. “Mattis and Walker are both texting wanting to talk to you. Brilliant.  _Fucking_ brilliant.”  
  
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat. “Oh god, how badly did I fuck us.”  
  
“You know that deep trench in the Pacific?” Fatima asks me.  
  
“Yeah, the Marianas Trench?”  
  
“Ten thousand  _times_ deeper than that.”  
  
“Hang on,” Vinnie says, looking over across the green to where Andrew’s gesticulating and shouting at reporters while the Prince of Wales and another older woman try to calm him down. “Something’s happening over there.” He waves a flunky over. “Get me BBC on a tablet, now.”  
  
“Yessir.” The minion hastens to obey, and I heave myself up off of the hood of the Prius I was driven here in to crowd around the tablet with Fatima and Vinnie.  
  
After a few seconds the 4G connects and a somewhat grainy live video of Andrew’s impromptu press conference starts.  
  
“ _...and I did_ not  _have sexual relations with that woman that Ghislaine and Jeffrey procured but_ if I had done so _she was very emotionally mature for her apparent physical age and I had no reason to suspect that she was under the legal age of the jurisdiction that I was in at the time,_ ” Andrew spews on the tablet. I look up; the Prince of Wales has released his brother and is sitting on the ground with his face in his hands. “ _The President had_ no  _right,_ none _, to lay hands on me, and his allegations that I knew the little bitch was underage when the encounter that never occurred allegedly occurred, are nothing but slander and lies! I can’t fathom why the bastard made such slanderous allegations, perhaps it’s jealousy of some sort…_ ” On the screen, the Prince of Wales goes pale and slumps to the ground, putting his face in his hands to mirror what’s happening in real life.  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Vinnie whispers.  
  
“Did he just…” I ask in disbelief.  
  
“ _Oh for…_ ” Fatima sighs. “This...this might be usable to salvage the situation. He just... _what_? How do things like this even  _happen_ to you?”  
  
“I have no fucking clue. Maybe it’s one of the ways the universe apologizes to me for sticking me in this body? Like meeting you?”  
  
“...you’re not forgiven,” Fatima mutters, but she hugs me anyway out of sheer relief.  
  
By the time I leave Britain, I’m ten points up in  _British_ opinion polls of all things, and Corbyn thinks that my advocacy for his soft-Brexit plan and promises of a continued Special Relationship will be enough to get him and his plan over the edge.  
  
Prince Andrew doesn’t show his face in public for over two months.  
  
***  
  
 _July 15th. The Wilsons’ house. USA._  
  
“ _...and the President’s disastrous trip to Britain remains controversial, as Speaker of the House Paul Ryan accused the President of ‘reckless endangerment of the Anglo-American friendship’ on Twitter this morning. The BBC meanwhile reports that the network’s video of President Trump brawling with Prince Andrew of the United Kingdom has been viewed more than two billion times since it was uploaded to the BBC’s YouTube channel late last Friday. As you can see in this simulated re-construction…_ ”  
  
“Can we shut that off?” I ask Mrs. Vinnie as Baby Vinnie gnaws ferociously on her carrot.  
  
“Nope,” Mrs. Vinnie replies without even looking up as she attempts to get her daughter to take smaller bites.  
  
“I mean, it’s just getting  _pathetic_ now,” I complain, as on-screen Wolf Blitzer and some female anchor I don’t know re-enact the fight.  
  
“So was getting into a fight with a minor British royal on a diplomatic visit,” Vinnie points out, to an approving grunt from Mrs. Vinnie.  
  
“Exactly. There was  _no_ need to throw that punch! Come on, Natalie, stop trying to eat the carrot whole, you’re going to make yourself sick!”  
  
“Mother-- _lover_ deserved it,” I mutter. But she’s right, and I sigh in acquiescence. “Fine. I’ll control myself better if there’s a next time.”  
  
“Gotcha!” Mrs. Vinnie hisses as she pulls the carrot from Baby Vinnie’s mouth. The kid giggles gleefully and hits the tray of her high chair with both hands.  
  
“Bweak chains, bweak chains Unka Donnie!” She dissolves into baby giggling.  
  
Fuck.  
  
“...I’m sorry about that, too.”  
  
“No, you’re not,” Mrs. Vinnie counters with a sharp look.  
  
“I am a  _little_. That probably gets annoying to hear all the time.”  
  
“...yeah. Yeah, it does.” She leans back with a sigh as Vinnie tucks into his steak. “Your lasagna OK?”  
  
“It’s delicious, thank you so much, you didn’t need to--”  
  
“Don’t mention it. I’m just glad it came out alright, I don’t normally cook vegetarian.” She looks  _tired_ , way more so than usual. “Hey. Kid. Is there anything you, you know...want to talk about?”  
  
I shrug. “I dunno. I’ve been kinda on edge. Therapy’s...it’s going. When I can get it, you know?”  
  
“Yeah. I get it.” She sighs as Baby Vinnie babbles and smears her face with mashed potatoes while attempting to eat them. “So, you and this new Press Secretary?”  
  
“Yeah,” I blush. “Fatima and I...we’re kinda, you know. Dancing around. Trying to figure shit out. I’ve got no idea where we’re going.”  
  
“You don’t have to. And it doesn’t have to go anywhere. Maybe dancing around each other works, maybe it doesn’t.” She reaches over to wipe off Baby Vinnie’s face as the kid squirms. “Just...kid, I’m rooting for you, you know?” On the TV, the female anchor trips over Wolf Blitzer’s feet and they crash to the ground.  
  
“...thank you.” I don’t know what else to say.  
  
“Don’t mention it, kid. Now finish eating, this little monster’s almost done and I need to put her to bed after that.”  
  
***  
  
 _July 17th._  
  
“Vinnie, I paid for my other self’s plane ticket, right?”  
  
“That you did, Donnie.”  
  
“Good.” I chew a bite of my lunch sandwich, and swallow. “How’s the media coverage today?”  
  
“Well, the Prince of Wales let slip the bit about the Queen slapping you, so she’s at least getting a lot of sympathy in the press, which is keeping some of the potential blowback off of you. The Duke of Sussex remains resolute in rejecting your apology and called you, and I quote, a ‘fucking asshole’. The Duchess was more conciliatory, and accepted the gift basket and the ten million you gave to the Audubon Society in their names. Is Fatima talking to you again?”  
  
“Yeah. Still kinda pissed. We’re gonna try to have a long talk tonight, shake things out.”  
  
“Good. Hate to have you off-base before your so-called vacation. Speaking of--are you ready for Comic-Con, sir?”  
  
I grin. “You bet, Vinnie. You bet. But first, of course, I gotta have that meeting with Greg Berlanti…”  
  
***  
  
 _July 20th. San Diego, California._  
  
"OK, so, I think I should preface this conference with, I'm still kinda hung over from last night," I tell the audience. I scratch Trump's scraggly grey chest hair through the part in my Hawaiian shirt, squinting out into the hall. "Greg and I, we got really fucking drunk to celebrate the LEGO deal. Good times."  
  
"Yeah, and we finished off a lot of scripts last-minute, too," Greg Berlanti agrees. He pops a Tylenol, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. "Finished off the  _Elseworlds_ crossover scripts. You all are gonna love it, an  _Arrow_ alternate universe where Deathstroke is Star City’s vigilante. Anyway, the meeting ran late, Comrade Donnie here brought some Finnish vodka, so we sort of overindulged."  
  
"I don't normally drink, at least until recently, so I'm still a total lightweight," I add. "Also, Chyler Leigh, I am  _really_ sorry for drunk-dialing you at 3 AM and asking you to go over scripts that you didn't have yet for a comfort pass. Those scripts also do not  _exist_ yet because they're literally outlines that Greg and I brainstormed for season 5."  
  
"Ditto," Berlanti says. Lotz, Benoist, Gustin, and Amell are giving us weird looks. “Except the Lex Luthor stuff. That is actually a Suit--er, I mean executive mandate. Should be fun to do anyway.”  
  
"Also, Caity, you look fucking  _hot_ in that T-shirt," I say before I forget. "Like, you always are, nothing hotter than a woman with the gun show on display, but seriously, you must've been seriously working out or something, because you are like,  _radioactive_ hot. Like, Nicole Maines is hot, Katie McGrath is a bombshell, Chyler Leigh's looked like a 20something for nearly 20 years now, but you, holy shit, I know this is perverted and terrible and all that crap but your arms are like a Greek god sculpture's and fucking hell what do you bench-press, 100, 110?"  
  
Lotz flexes with a grin, and her shirt sleeves distort slightly. "125, Mr. President. I've been bulking up for some stunts this season."  
  
"Oh? Anything you can tell me?"  
  
She gives me a shit-eating grin. "Wouldn't you like to know? Berlanti and I planned this out with a couple other people, I swore I'd do it myself."  
  
"C'mon, I'm Greg's partner in crime here! Greg, you can tell me, can't you?"  
  
Now  _Berlanti's_ wearing a shit-eating grin. "No can do, Mr. President."  
  
"Dude, I made you the hottest commodity in the entertainment industry!"  
  
"It's a surprise, Mr. President. For you and for the audience."  
  
"What surprise? I thought hiring Katrina Law back to finally give Nyssa’s arc a satisfactory conclusion was the surprise?"  
  
"Nah, for your birthday this year," Lotz chuckles. "Oh, man, he doesn't know  _anything_? You didn't leak him anything at all?"  
  
"Nope," Berlanti replies, popping the P. I gasp theatrically.  
  
" _Et tu, Brute_? You know I've got half a mind to have the CIA figure out what you're doing, right?"  
  
"They have more important things to do for you, like wrecking your ex-boyfriend in the Kremlin," Lotz points out.  
  
"Point," I allow. "But still--Greg, just don't fuck with Avalance, OK? There's millions of lesbians who get all kinds of vicarious emotional validation..."  
  
"Mr. President, speaking as the gay dude, married to another gay dude, our LGBT fans have nothing to fear from me." He chuckles. "In fact, we'll be pushing a few envelopes this season. MAGA LGBT people, am I right?"  
  
Lotz lets out a bark of laughter, and my head swivels back to her. "What? What is it?"  
  
"Oh, nothing," she chuckles, waving me down. "Just wait until you and all the gay chicks watching Legends see who I'm training to lift. Nosebleed city, believe me."  
  
"Oh my god you people are gonna fucking kill me with anticipation anxiety," I groan, head in my hands. Gustin and Amell join Lotz's laughter, and I peer through my fingers at them. "What's so funny?"  
  
"Nothing, nothing," lies Gustin.  
  
"I'm in on the secret because Greg accidentally added a bunch of people to a group email," Amell admits. "Trust me, it's even gayer than your fanfic."  
  
I round on Berlanti. "Is that  _so_?"  
  
He shrugs with another shit-eating grin. "Well, between me and the usual writing team, fantastic people that they are, Team Legends took your  _Make_  Supergirl  _Gay Again_  slogan as a  _challenge_."  
  
I squeal like a little girl in frustration. "Goddamn it, Greg, now I'm in full-on hype mode! But you won't fucking beat me, Greg Berlanti! I'm Comrade Donnie, the most powerful motherfucker on the planet, and the stuff I write for  _Supergirl_  is gonna be the gayest shit anybody's ever seen! I'm talking MORE lesbian weddings, more trans characters, a trans guy this time since they're under-represented, hiring Bex Taylor-Klaus back, guest-starring Julie D'Aubigny, even gay penguin kisses if it comes down to that! MAGA LGBT! MAGA EQUALITY! MAGA SOCIALISM!"  
  
"Uh, actually," Lotz says, "Uh, Sara sleeps with Julie D'Aubigny this season."  
  
I freeze. "What?"  
  
"You didn't know?" she frowns.  
  
"No, I think I'd have at least Tweeted about it! Jesus fuck, Sara Lance and the real-life prototype for Sara Lance? TWO flamboyantly bisexual badasses meeting up? What the fuck happens?"  
  
"Episode 9 of  _Legends_ season 4," Berlanti cuts in. "It's called  _The Three Must-Get-Beers_. You're gonna love it."  
  
"It sounds awesome already, but why is Sara cheating on Ava?"  
  
"She isn't," Lotz says. "Not really--"  
  
"Getting close to the secret there," Berlanti cuts her off.  
  
"Oh, right, sorry."  
  
"Jesus, man, what secret is this? You'd better not break up Avalance!?"  
  
Berlanti's grin is positively radiant. "Oh, believe me, Donnie, I won't break them up. Not permanently. No, I've found the one and only way to make them  _better_."  
  
I open and close my mouth like a fish, then settle for squeeing like a useless gay teenager on Tumblr watching Sara and Ava kiss for the first time back in season 3. After a moment, Benoist pipes up.  
  
"The weird thing is, I'm out of the loop, too, but all this does sound even gayer than the stuff that happens on my show this season. And we literally have two gay couples and a trans woman."  
  
The crowd, up until this point murmuring but quiet as the conversation sped along, goes wild.  
  
***  
  
The MTV people’s lights are too fucking harsh. But fuck it. Press gig’s gotta get done.  
  
"Hey there, we're with the cast of  _Supergirl_  and lead writer President Donald Trump here in San Diego, to discuss the upcoming season and rumors of another cameo by the President..." the MTV guy begins.  
  
I belch, cutting him off. "Whoop. Sorry. Don't normally drink beer, but this is a  _good_ oktoberfest. Called the  _Kaiser_. From a company in Colorado. Good shit, picture of Kaiser Bill on the front." I rotate the bottle to show it. "But you know, me showing up as Comrade Commie isn't what we should be talking about. What we  _should_ be talking about is how fucking awesome our cast is, especially all these amazing ladies! Our new cast member, Nicole Maines, first trans superheroine on TV, really fantastic woman, lovely to work with! She’s gonna go far. Chyler and Laura here are just the goddamn best, they've been pouring their hearts into their performances and by jingo it shows. Melissa, I'm sorry for calling you Forehead all those times, that was dickish of me, and for being a dick to your boyfriend, you're not as awesome as Katie here but you're still pretty damn great in general and really Katie's just the best in the world, I couldn't make this show gay again without her help and support. She even writes fanfic, too! Really good fanfic!"  
  
"Donnie, no!" McGrath exclaims, covering her face in embarrassment. Benoist is blinking at the whiplash change in topic--maybe I should get meds for my ADHD? Eh, fuck it.  
  
"Nah, seriously, it's great! 357 kudos and 86 comments on Ao3 on just the first chapter alone, it's this fantastic slow-burn NyssAvaLance polyamory fic--honestly, Katie, I know you're nervous but this is some  _good_ shit."  
  
"Well, I mean, it's just something I do in my spare time..."  
  
"It's good stuff! Drama comes naturally to you."  
  
She chuckles ruefully. "Alright, that it does." Fuck me, her Irish brogue is the hottest thing on the planet. Good thing I started out with my legs crossed and Trump's dick is a newly budded acorn.  
  
"Here, I'll read some of it..." I pull out my phone and she yelps, hiding behind her hands again. "Ah, here's a good one... _Sara's breath caught as she and Nyssa came together as if by gravity, the Demon's Daughter still shaking a little as the women slipped into an embrace. 'It's OK,' she promised, her lips suddenly dry as her eyes took in every detail of Nyssa's blood-flecked face, the faint freckles and dark, wet eyes and the plump, trembling lips. 'It's OK now. We're safe,_ habibti _. Al'sahr will never hurt you again.'_  
  
" _Nyssa's arms slipped around her blonde lover as she melted into Sara's arms, body quaking with sheer_ relief _at Sara's fortuitous arrival. 'My beloved,' the assassin whispered. 'Other half of my heart. How did you find me?'_  
  
" _'Merlyn's working with a couple other goons,' Sara explained. 'They call themselves the Legion of Doom. We thought they were beaten, but it looks like one of the Reverse-Flash's time-clones--ah, look, it's complicated, point is, I'm here with a time-ship full of Legends and you're gonna be fine.'_  
  
" _Boots sounded in the hall, and Nyssa whirled, but rather than Merlyn or his assassins the one who entered the vestibule was a taller blonde, wielding a gun that went nicely with her crisp suit. 'Hey, Sara, honey," she grinned, eyes lighting up as she saw Sara. 'Sorry the backup's late, Gary had an accident with a time-courier.' She was going for Sara's lips when she saw Nyssa's look and halted. 'Who's this?'_  
  
" _Sara Lance, badass time-traveller and assassin, flushed deep red and squirmed in place. 'Uh, babe...she...um...my ex. Sort of. Ava Sharpe, Nyssa al Ghul. Nyssa, Ava. Ava's my, uh, girlfriend.'_  
  
" _Ava and Nyssa both stiffened, but the time-agent forced herself to hold out a hand. 'Nice to meet you,' she offered._  
  
" _Nyssa accepted the hand warily, but shook. It was a warm, firm, yet soft grip, and both women felt a little flush threatening to rise in their cheeks. 'An honor,' Nyssa replied._  
  
" _Sara Lance had no idea how screwed she was._ "  
  
I scroll down as McGrath makes a whimpering noise and flops forwards, Leigh and Benoist patting her on the back and murmuring that everything's OK. Laura Benanti is hiding a smile behind her palm. Maines is stifling giggles. The men look varying degrees of mystified and (in David Harewood's case) amused. "15 comments on that chapter," I say. "One of them's mine, but all of them are positive. Here's a choice one-- _'So GAY! I love it! OMFG where do I start--OK so I love that my gay babies are gonna end up happy like you say in the notes, but_ THE ANGST _, omfg my feels askasfjhkljasdfh! But I love Nyssa's duel with Merlyn, and Sara's anxiety and nerves and mixed-up feelings, and I love the rescue! WHAM Sara out of nowhere with the cavalry! YAY! But then omg Ava just walking in, and so much ANGST oh my gay heart, I love it, it's a good pain, thank you so much. MOAR please!!!!!!!11!!!!'_ "  
  
McGrath whimpers again. I look to the camera with a grin. "Katie McGrath is really just an incredibly talented woman who deserves to be a goddamn movie star. Which she's gonna be! See her opposite Sofia Boutella in the upcoming Bond movie  _Trigger Mortis_. And watch  _Supergirl_ , of course, this shit is gonna be gay." I gesture to Leigh and Benanti as McGrath sits up, blushing furiously (it looks really pretty on her elfin pale face). "These two, they're gonna act out a plot so gay it's basically fanfic."  
  
"He took it from a fanfic," Benanti clarifies. "His own, actually. It's still a great role to play."  
  
"You're just saying that because I'm paying through the nose for your commute and your kid's education," I comment. She chuckles and shrugs.  
  
"Not really. I kind of like playing a hopelessly gay alien warlord. Though, I'm a bit miffed that Astra doesn't have an amusing gay nickname like 'Lena Lesbian' or 'Kara Gayvers'."  
  
“General Queer?” Leigh suggests.  
  
“Maybe,” Benanti allows.  
  
“Anyway, yeah, lots of LGBT representation,” I blather. “Also, Supergirl’s taking on a new bad guy--to all my comic book nerd pals out there, you know Magog from  _Kingdom Come_? Yeah. him.”  
  
“I got the scripts for the whole season,” Benoist confirms. “Oh, man, I’m going to have so much fun with some of this stuff. It’s about how compassion and kindness can break cycles of violence. I even save the day with compassion in the end!”  
  
“Holy shit, did you just  _compliment_ one of my scripts without me bribing you?” I ask with disbelief. “I thought I burned through what brownie points I had with you by insulting your boyfriend just because his character was garbage.”  
  
“Well…” Benoist clears her throat. “I...may have given you an unfair shake last year. I assumed that you were still, you know, Donald Trump. And I was pretty angry about how you treated Chris. He appreciated the apology gift basket, by the way. But Chyler talked to me about her meeting with you in the White House in September. Something about how you’re actually a completely different person?”  
  
I chuckle mirthlessly. “Yeah, Donald Trump was a sociopathic narcissistic moronic petty childish bigoted bully wth terrible taste. He was a vile person in every possible way--a rapist, a domestic abuser, a horrible parent--and nobody should mourn him. Frankly the country and his family are better off that he died and I replaced him. I’m…” I pause. “...I don’t really know  _what_ I am anymore. But I do know that I want American media to be gay as fuck. And, well. I’ve got your back. And everybody in this room’s, especially Ms. Maines’s. And every American’s. Anybody fucks with my friends, my people,  _I’ll fuck them up_ , damn it.” I grope for my beer. “Vinnie, can I have another vodka?”  
  
Leigh shoots my henchman a look as he shakes his head. “Nope.”  
  
“Goddamn it, what the hell am I paying you for?”  
  
“To keep you safe, and to not let Liz kick your ass for Natalie’s first words being ‘Bweak Chains!’,” my henchman replies calmly.  
  
“Wait,  _what_?” Benoist asks in confusion.  
  
“My daughter’s first words were part of his anarcho-socialist slogan,” Vinnie clarifies. “Liz, my wife, she just about lost her shit. Then Donnie went and nearly got himself killed in Israel, and Liz was threatening to storm the White House and chain him to his desk to stop him from risking his life.”  
  
Most of the cast wince in sympathy. “Damn,” Benoist mutters. “What’s he paying you?”  
  
“My daughter goes to whatever preschool, school, and college I like on his dime,” Vinnie replies.  
  
“She’s a cute kid,” I chuckle. “Bigly smart. Loves the Revolution already.”  
  
“We used her as a weapon that one time.”  
  
“Oh, man, the vomit explosion trick on Take Your Child To Work Day, heh, that was a good one. I love you, man.”  
  
Vinnie lets his lips curl up into a grin. “Love you too, kid.”  
  
“...wait, you call him  _kid_?” the interviewer asks.  
  
“We’re pals,” I tell her. “You know how it is.”  
  
“Um, I don’t, actually. But, now that we’re talking about you--how are you and Greg Berlanti replying to the announcement by production company  _PureFlix_  that they’ll be producing a new show with Kevin Sorbo?”  
  
“Kevin Sorbo will not be invited back to this show, we agreed on that right away,” I reply. “We have no intention of making a direct response. But let me just say, trans people are the most at-risk minority in this nation except  _maybe_ Muslims. I will not tolerate any form of bigotry or discrimination against trans people. Anybody stupid enough to send threats or harassment to Nicole here will draw my wrath. Well, actually, anybody who sends threats or harassment to anybody in this room will earn a place high up on my shit list, but if you fuck with Nicole, it’s GITMO for you.”  
  
“Mr. President, you’re literally in the process of shutting down GITMO,” Vinnie reminds me.  
  
“I don’t give a shit, going after trans people is shitty bullying crap and I won’t allow it.” I nod to Maines. “I got your back.”  
  
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Maines says with a blush.  
  
“Don’t mention it,” I wave her off. “Least I can do. God, I’m so fucking tired of hate.”  
  
“Amen,” Benoist mutters. I let out a strangled chuckle.  
  
“I still can’t believe I survived the assassination attempt in New Jersey last year,” I tell her. “But the Jerusalem thing...that hits harder. I mean, I’m  _baiting_ the fucking Nazis and white supremacists, I was half-expecting one of those crazy fucks to try to kill me a second time, but the Jerusalem thing--I gave the negotiators the framework, yeah, but the rest of it was on  _them_. It was supposed to be a working truce! And some crazy sack of shit decides that he’d rather shoot up a holy city in the name of ethnic cleansing than be at peace.  
  
“People call me fucking brave. I’m not brave, Melissa. I’ve got nothing to fear because I’m  _dead_. And I’m starting to think I’m insane, because the alternative is that this whole goddamn planet is the insane thing.” My hands are shaking. Why are my hands shaking, I’m not supposed to have Tourette’s in this body?!  
  
“Jesus,” Harewood mutters. He’s got a point; this whole fucking press gig’s gone off the fucking rails. And Greg worked so hard to give us lines and plan it out...  
  
“But enough about me,” I tell the interviewer. “Ask about something else we’ve done.”  
  
“OK…” she flails for something, anything, her script long forgotten. “What about something you wish you could have done this season but didn’t?”  
  
“Oh, I’ve got this one,” Benoist speaks up. “I wish the scripts could have me doing a little singing, you know?”  
  
“Shit, I’ll put that in next season somewhere,” I promise. “Hell, Greg and I’ll edit some time into an episode later in this season for you to do that. Your singing’s great.”  
  
“Um...thank you?”  
  
“Don’t mention it, I tell it like it is. MAGA honesty.”  
  
“I got everything I wanted,” McGrath pipes up. “Always have liked vamping it up, heh.”  
  
“Really, a self-actor-allusion?” I shoot back at her.  
  
She does a little bow. “That’s right!”  
  
“I wish we could’ve done a bit more with my plotline with the Martian colony, but there were time constraints,” Harewood cuts in. “It’s a shame, but the Pres--uh, Comrade Donnie promised to remedy that in the future.”  
  
“We tease an arc that Comrade Donnie says is from the comics, but I’m not sure if that counts as a regret or not because it’s probably happening next season,” Benanti pops up. “I want to take some time to sing, too, now that Melissa mentions it.”  
  
“Right, I really gotta talk to Greg and do some edits,” I mutter. “There has to be room in the budget…”  
  
“I’m gonna be honest, I’m still a little miffed about being mostly kept out of that musical episode from the season before last,” Leigh says. “So…yeah, count me in on the singing, too.”  
  
“Ugh,  _that_ episode,” I mutter. “Look,  _Flash_ season 3 was a fucking slog, but at least that one had everybody having a good time...and look, I know Chris Wood is a basically decent dude in real life, and I was super rude to him last year, but Manhell was a godawful character. Just the worst. Like...like Neelix on  _Voyager_. Ethan Phillips, chill dude, good actor; Neelix, most annoying asshole ever. Just the worst. So basically the episode was intolerable because the message was that Supergirl’s soul-mate is a dickhead frat boy and unapologetic slaver who complains that her getting him breakfast after saving some lives isn’t enough because he wanted to wake up next to her and he thinks that’s more important than people’s  _lives_.” I shake my head, Benoist giving me an odd look. “And look, I don’t blame Mr. Wood, just like I don’t blame Ethan Phillips for Neelix or the dude who played the Ligonian leader in that really racist episode of  _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ , it’s all in the writing. But  _fuck_ , way to ruin a perfectly good musical episode.  
  
“Anyway, sorry, I talk too much.”  
  
“A little bit,” Benoist agrees. “Speaking of--that’s a nice way to segue into something I actually was pleasantly surprised by. Um, so you know how  _Flash_  has a Harrison Wells for every season, and Tom Cavanagh plays a new character each time? OK, so basically, we have something like that--Greg wrote the Pres--uh, Comrade Donnie--in for another episode.”  
  
“Oh, man, they are  _not_  ready for Comrade Commie,” I groan.  
  
“Comrade Commie is  _hilarious_ , though,” Benoist counters. She turns back to the interviewer with a grin. “The President plays a parody of himself, a superhero who gives people superpowers by going on bombastic socialist rants.”  
  
“It’s amazing,” Mechad Brooks chuckles. “And then he fights himself.”  
  
“Right, I love that,” Maines adds with a grin, Benoist nodding along with her. “So basically the P--Comrade Donnie plays two characters. This parody of himself, and ‘the Donald’, who’s basically...what Trump was, you know, on the campaign trail.”  
  
“And then they fight,” Benoist snickers as I groan and cup my face in my hands. “ _Slap_  fight.”  
  
“Comrade Commie wins,” the guy who plays Brainiac-5 pipes up helpfully.  
  
"...and so now we have Comrade Commie fighting The Donald," McGrath concludes. "Fractal Donald Trump, if you will."  
  
"I kinda like doing self-parody," I admit, "but I was really nervous about the whole thing. Both because I already played a character in the crossover last year, and because I don't want to take too much screen time from the rest of the cast." I drain my beer, and pass it off to an intern. "Minion, get me a few dozen more and some vodka, will you?" I can feel the dark mass of emotion bubbling up inside me, and I don't like it. "Get it done in twenty and I'll give you a grand."  
  
"Hey, are you alright?" Leigh asks with a frown. "That's the fifth beer I've seen you finish today, and I thought you didn't like carbonated drinks?"  
  
"I don't," I admit. "Don't usually drink at all, actually. But fuck it, it helps me forget. If you'd been there in Jerusalem you'd get it." I shake my head to clear it and rub my eyes with the backs of my hands. "It kinda stuck with me, you know? Not just the idiocy of it all, the pointlessness of the violence, but that guy dying in front of me. I've never seen that before. The movies always make it, you know, tragic and dramatic and they have time to say goodbye. They don't mention the blood and bits and shit and guys screaming because their hands got mangled and shit like that." I shudder, and Vinnie steps up behind me to lay a hand on my shoulder and squeeze.  
  
"I can't relate, I've never had an experience quite like that," Leigh admits, putting a hand on my other shoulder. "But I can tell you this. Abusing alcohol isn't the answer."  
  
"Vinnie and Mrs. Vinnie tell me that all the time," I note. "So does Fatima, but she's not allowed booze anyway. Religious reasons."  
  
"Yeah, well, your henchman, as far as I know, didn't spend a good chunk of his '20s hooked on booze and drugs doing model shoots out of his mind on cocaine. I  _did_. And all that did was make me burn out faster. I did my second movie mostly wasted and half-starved, for crying out loud!"  
  
"You did movies?"  
  
She tosses her hair with an annoyed huff. " _Not Another Teen Movie_ , with Captain America, and don't change the subject,  _Comrade_. This isn't a joke or one of your zany schemes, addiction is  _serious_."  
  
"Yeah, I know, I've got a bunch of kids who got fucked up by it working in Puerto Rico right now fixing the place up for when I browbeat Congress into letting 'em be a proper state."  
  
Leigh sighs again and looks up at Vinnie. "He's got a therapist, right?"  
  
"Yup," my henchman confirms. "Liz and I made him get one, but Mattis was threatening to quit if Donnie didn't take care of himself, too, after that shit that went down in Israel. Kid's been through some shit."  
  
"I can take it," I growl. "I'm  _dealing_  with it." I grip Trump's knees so hard the pudgy little hands' knuckles go white. "Kinda why I've been binging  _Arrow_ season 2 and  _Legends_  3. Caity Lotz's performance of a woman with PTSD is  _fantastic_. Gives me hope. Also, we're going to make some very heartwarming  _Supergirl_ material and make the network pay for it." My flunky comes back with booze, and I reach for it, but Vinnie blocks me and waves the minion off. Leigh squeezes my shoulder firmly. "Fuck, guys. I just want to forget for a little bit."  
  
"Forget by discussing your insane plans," Vinnie rumbles.  
  
"...fine. So, we have a trans character this season. Played by a trans actress. I wanted a trans guy too, but Greg couldn't make it happen. Bummer." I shrug. "Nicole here seems pretty great, though. Eager, talented, and or course a knockout."  
  
Maines flushes at that as Harewood and McGrath nod along with me. "Thanks, I guess?"  
  
"Call it like I see it." Vinnie hands me a bottle of water and I crack it open. "I'm kinda drunk right now, just FYI. Anyway, Chyler and Laura here, they've got a great arc this season. Super gay, let me tell you."  
  
"Not as gay as Lena Lesbian," McGrath notes sharply.  
  
"Or Kara Gayvers," Benoist adds, chuckling ruefully. "I'll admit, I wasn't sold on this idea at first, but Katie is fun to work with and you know, I've sort of come around."  
  
"Oh, come on," Benanti chuckles, leaning over the couch from behind. "I can out-gay you two any day of the week, and Chyler has a head start."  
  
"I've literally been playing Lena as quietly pansexual since the moment she walked on-screen in the season 2 premiere," McGrath retorts. "I've been watching clips of Andrew Robinson and Alexander Siddig on  _Deep Space Nine_  to hone my flirting skills. Lena's as queer as a three-dollar bill,  _definitely_ the most adorably gay character on the show."  
  
"I mean, she  _did_ suggest the really gay shirt and the episode with the evil homophobe cult, you know the one," I comment as Benanti nearly retorts. "Katie's kinda got a point."  
  
"If anyone's going to win the LGBT-off, it's  _me_ ," Maines announces with a grin. "Actual trans woman,  _right_ here! I've got  _authenticity_ on my side!"  
  
"Point," McGrath, Benanti, and I admit simultaneously.  
  
“Speaking of, I gotta do something to normalize trans people,” I continue. “Would it be, like, weird if I just asked Laverne Cox out on a date? Because Melania and I have an open relationship, but you know, there’s somebody who I’ve got this sort of romantic  _thing_ with, but she and I are both really interested in helping the trans community any way we can, so…”  
  
“I mean, I think if you were going to  _seriously_  date someone, regardless of gender or cis/trans status, you should be doing it because you like them,” Maines says to general nods. “But, I guess for the PR...I dunno, it probably varies person by person, but if, like, you and I went on a date just for show, that might be worth it even if it’d be really awkward and weird.”  
  
“Hey, don’t worry, I know the best way to cut through the awkward and weird.  _Star Trek: Deep Space Nine_ ’s on Netflix, and that show fucking rocks.”  
  
“Uh--Ok...I’ve never seen that show, actually.”  
  
“Best Trek show ever, possibly the best TV show ever. Had a pansexual, sequentially genderfluid character, and a sexless blob who identifies as male. Amazing show. Also loaded with subtext, especially by ‘90s standards, and all the characters are just the best. Especially Quark, he’s great, and Armin Shimmerman is a fabulous actor, he needs to be in more stuff.”  
  
“That...sounds interesting?”  
  
“Awesome. We should totally set up a date. I’ve been introducing Fatima, my...press secretary? I don’t think we’re like dating or that sort of...goddamn it, I don’t know this romance shit. But Fatima and I’ve been watching DS9 in my free time and writing Garak/Bashir slash. God I love Garak, Andrew Robinson is a fabulous actor.”  
  
“...I might be able to do that?” Maines says very hesitantly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know quite how to handle this.”  
  
“You and me both,” I admit, and take a drink of water. “Vinnie, remind me to drop by the  _Star Trek_  panel later in case I forget, I want to meet Alexander Siddig and Aaron Eisenberg.”  
  
“Mr. President, Annie and Fatima specifically said no because, and I quote, ‘you know he’s going to get into a slap fight with that Alex Kurtzman guy’, unquote.”  
  
“I can behave myself!” I protest. Several people snort disbelievingly. “...OK, can we go if I promise not to talk to Kurtzfucker if he’s there?”  
  
Vinnie sighs and pinches his nose. “You know what,  _fine_. The man can’t write or direct, anyway, it’s not like you need to heap praise on him.”  
  
“You see? You see, I’ve got a  _point_.”  
  
“Regrettably, that is true.”  
  
“Anyway, I should change the subject. Melissa, a lot of other Arrowverse actors have gotten side projects--for example, Katie here’s in a Bond movie and I know for a fact that Tala Ashrafi over on  _Legends of Tomorrow_  got herself a bit part on the next  _Star Wars_  movie, though I honestly don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing because JJ Abrams is supposed to be directing that one and I’d rather be in an Uwe Boll movie than a JJ Abrams movie. Abrams is the most derivative hack in the universe. Anyway, uh, so, are you doing anything fun?”  
  
“Well…” She grins charmingly. “You remember how you mentioned you like my singing?”  
  
“That you’re a great singer. It’s an objective statement, not just my opinion.”  
  
“Aww, that’s sweet. But, my point is, I’m allowed to say this by the way, my agent’s negotiating for me to get a role as Glinda in a big-screen adaptation of  _Wicked_.”  
  
“Hey, that’s awesome!” The rest of the cast echoes my sentiment. “Vinnie, remind me to block some time out in a few years for Melissa’s movie premiere. When do you guys start filming?”  
  
“Hopefully next year, Mr. President, but it could take a while. It’s going to be a little tricky considering that I’m also a regular on a TV show, but as long as you don’t get impeached for your blatant favoritism, I should be able to make it work.”  
  
“Call me Donnie, Comrade Donnie, all my friends do. I mean, I regularly accuse my ex-boyfriend Vladimir Putin of fellating sheep, I threatened to nuke Israel down to the bedrock last year, and I accidentally got John Oliver made Prime Minister of Italy, and I haven’t been thrown out yet. Pretty sure I’m only leaving office either after being voted out or in a body bag.”  
  
“Don’t joke about that,” Benoist says seriously. Leigh and McGrath nod agreement. “Hey. You’ve been up and down this whole interview. Do you need a hug?”  
  
I lick my lips, clenching my drink. “I...yeah. I think I do. I’m a bit fucked up from the whole near-assassination thing. Still.”  
  
“Anyone would be,” Benoist assures me. “Heck, some days I still have problems because of...ah, another time. Come here.”  
  
She hugs me, and I start crying on her shoulder.  
  
“You’re the best, Melissa,” I choke out as I squeeze her back. “Anybody fucks with you, I’ll have them sent to GITMO. I can do that, I’ve got the CIA on speed dial.”  
  
“...maybe  _don’t_  do that?” she suggests as she pulls back. “Also, though I appreciate the sentiment, I’ve got my life under control.”  
  
“OK,” I sniffle. “Thank you. I...yeah. Hugs are good.”  
  
“Damn right,” Vinnie rumbles, clapping a hand down on my shoulder. “Now you should probably let someone else lead the conversation, Donnie, or we’ll never be done here.”  
  
***  
  
While I was awkwardly hugging Supergirl and inadvertently fueling another boom in the online cottage industry of "pre-inauguration vs. post-inauguration Trump comparison" videos, Greg Berlanti, unbeknownst to me, was leading the official  _Legends of Tomorrow_  interview.  
  
"Let's get this started," the producer said, sitting heavily on the provided stool as he adjusted his massive sunglasses. "Pardon me if I take a few pills, I'm still hung over."  
  
"What did you even  _do_ last night?" Brandon Routh asked, dressed per Berlanti's orders in an "I used to be Superman" T-shirt and baggy cargo pants. "I heard you and the President were up late, but..."  
  
"Mainlining Finnish moonshine he got from this small-time vendor out of Rautjärvi," Berlanti explained. "Kicks like a mule. Anyway, let me start by saying that, even though he's not here, I am kinda weirdly grateful to Comrade Donnie for bribing his way onto  _Supergirl_ 's writing team and then raving about how great  _Legends_ was last season on Twitter, because our budget went through the roof this year."  
  
"Not to mention that pretty much everybody's gotten some movie offer or other," Caity Lotz piped up, her powerful shoulders and rippling biceps on full display in her strapless dress. There was a murmur of agreement. Maisie Richardson-Sellers looked back and licked her lips with an audible whimper of thirst at Lotz's muscles.  
  
"I turned  _down_  a leading role to stay on this show," Nick Zano said, to a couple gasps of surprise. "What? It's fun working with you guys! And thanks to the viewership spike and the President being...whatever the Hell is wrong with the President, my salary's gone up thirty percent.  _And_  I get a cut of the action figures."  
  
"Oh, yeah, we have action figures again!" Lotz chuckled. "I remember when we did those for  _Arrow_. Hey, Maisie, did you get a cut of the action figures?"  
  
"Yeah, and I'm making bank off of funko collectible trading on the Internet," replied Maisie Richardson-Sellers, wearing earrings in the pink, yellow, and blue colors of the pan pride flag. "It's like I'm the collectible figurine mafia or something."  
  
"Wait,  _you're_  supremefigurineleader47?" Berlanti cut in. "Because I could've  _sworn_ \--"  
  
"No, supremefigurineleader47 is the President," Tala Ashe spoke up, reclining on the couch with a woman on either side. "You can tell because he's got the covert Star Trek reference at the end of his username." Heads swiveled towards her. "What? 47, it shows up all the time on the versions of Trek he likes the most. He explained it to me during the crossover shoot last year when we were filming the bits with Supergirl's sister and her aunt and he and I had nothing to do. I swear I learned more about  _Deep Space Nine_  in ten minutes than I ever needed to know--did you know that DS9 had an openly pansexual and genderfluid character, in the '90s?"  
  
"Seriously?" the black woman replied with interest. "I never saw that show."  
  
"You should, I've been binging all the  _Star Trek_ s except the new one on Netflix. Jadzia Dax, she's this alien called a Trill, when they die they come back as a new person because they've got this slug in their belly that holds their memories. So she used to be a guy a few times, and one time she was this guy who was a daredevil pilot, and his widow reincarnates as a woman who comes to the station and she and the new Dax who's a woman get back together. Really sweet little story, one of those message shows about why homophobia is bad."  
  
"Huh, now  _I_  want to check that out," said Jes McCallan from Ashe's right. Katrina Law and Caity Lotz, sitting behind the two, nodded at that. Courtney Ford, on Ashe's left, shook her head.  
  
"I'm not a hardcore nerd, just married to Superman here, I watched a little of the Star Trek show with Sir Patrick Stewart back in the day, you know, the bit where he's assimilated by the Borg, but that's all I remember."  
  
"The guy who used to be Superman," Routh corrected hastily. Ford turned in her seat.  
  
"You turned them  _down_?"  
  
"What? I don't want to get the hate for not being Henry Cavill, and I already worked on a Superman shoot that turned out to involve two sex offenders, I really don't want to be in a situation like that again."  
  
" _Honey_! It's not even a new contract, it's an in-house expansion!" Ford exploded. "With the money they were offering, we could buy  _two_  new houses!"  
  
"Yeah, but the last time I did a Superman shoot the director and the lead antagonist were both creeps and it nearly killed my career. I  _still_  feel guilty for not picking up on the bad vibes coming off of Spacey and Singer, hon, I can't do that again."  
  
"What are the chances of them hiring Singer again after the President ruined his career and had him arrested?"  
  
"Well...yeah, fair point, but still..."  
  
Berlanti cleared his throat loudly, and popped a pill. "Much as I'm surprised by, and happy for Mr. Routh's career revitalization, can we re-focus on our own show to avoid going over time?"  
  
"You know the President's going to go over time," Lotz pointed out.  
  
"Well, he's the President, everybody already knows he's insane," Berlanti countered. "Though he's not, really, he's got some mental health issues from the strain of nearly being assassinated three times in a year, but what he  _really_  is, is an agent of controlled chaos. He throws up this giant storm of madness then grabs his real goals while everybody's confused."  
  
"Do you think he'll piss on Reagan's grave again?" Dominic Purcell rumbled. "Genuinely curious here."  
  
"I don't think he does the same silly thing twice," Katrina Law noted. "That said, back on topic I'm really glad to be back on the CW, working with Caity's always a pleasure and Jes is super friendly."  
  
"Yeah, we're a great team," McCallan chuckled as Lotz nodded with a grin.  
  
"Is there anything you can tell our viewers about what's coming?" the MTV interviewer asked, straightening in her seat.  
  
The women looked at each other, and grinned. "Just that this show has a big audience with teenage lesbians," Lotz said, "and we are eager to please our audience." She flexed again. Richardson-Sellers sighed longingly at the rippling muscles, and Law blushed as Lotz threw one powerful arm around her shoulders.  
  
"If I remember correctly, the term that Caity used is 'nosebleed city'," Law noted, trying to gather herself. Somehow, the awkward blush made her even more borderline impossibly beautiful. "Though I think it's more, very supportive, kind, loving tenderness in a story about acceptance, love, and healing. A nice little romance like I've never quite done before."  
  
"Yeah, it's really optimistic, like the show in general," McCallan added. "Part of what I really like about working here."  
  
"Any specific teasers for our audience?" the interviewer tried again.  
  
"Watch and find out," Berlanti interrupted, taking off his sunglasses dramatically. "Watch and find out, but trust me, we're going to take a stab at topping Beebo, and outdoing Comrade Donnie's  _Supergirl_  for LGBT representation. MAGA equality and all that that he says."  
  
"The Hell are we gonna top Beebo the god of war punching out a demon lord?" Purcell asked.  
  
Berlanti chuckled with a fierce light in his eyes. "We're going to make this show gay as  _fuck_. Anyone could be queer, and plenty of people  _will_ be. And I'm going to out-do Comrade Donnie if it's the last thing I do!"  
  
“Amen!” the cast chorused enthusiastically.  
  
“And then we’re gonna do some more spinoffs,” Berlanti grinned, putting his sunglasses back on as he leaned back in his chair. “We might even get a movie for some of our shows. We’re definitely planning more crossover television events, and some new shows to replace the current roster when contracts run out and all that.”  
  
“Aww, I honestly think we could do this for a decade,” Lotz chuckled. “I mean, I don’t mind doing other stuff, but this crew--we’ve done some  _amazing_  stuff.”  
  
“Well, we want to end on a high note rather than drag it out,” Berlanti countered. “Definitely not after this season, though. I’m thinking an all-stars of history plus Sara Lance fighting historical villains arc, while the rest of the Legends try to find their Captain...ah, it’s just something Comrade Donnie and I cooked up. Oh, and we’re planning something great for the next crossover. Comrade Donnie’s less sold on it than me, but Marc’s all in and I think I can talk the President around.”  
  
“Doesn’t the President hate Marc Guggenheim?” Ashe asked.  
  
“He called Marc a dimwitted hack and said that  _Arrow_  season four was, and I quote, ‘like shaving my balls with a power sander while drinking sulfuric acid’. And, if I’m going to be honest-- _Arrow_ season 4 did  _not_  work. Neal McDonough is fantastic of course,” several of the actresses and Brandon Routh nodded, “but the whole structure just falls apart. Honestly, I’m glad to have Comrade Donnie, I think the quality of the stuff he and I have overseen is...look, I’ve worked with Marc for a long time, he’s a great guy, he’s had some great ideas, but sometimes, he just needs to take a step back and look at it all from a different perspective, and I think that sometimes he might have a problem doing that.” Berlanti sipped his water. “Of course, Comrade Donnie would put that a bit differently.”  
  
“Yeah, with a lot of cursing,” Lotz chuckled. “Honestly, gratuitous cursing and petty crap aside, I kind of like that guy. Maybe you two can trade off next season?”  
  
"But isn't it odd, working for  _Donald Trump_ , after he openly admitted to all of that sexual harassment?" the MTV reporter asked, trying to regain control of the interview.  
  
Caity Lotz chuckled again, her corded biceps and iron shoulders rippling as she shifted in her seat. Richardson-Sellers's eyes were dinner plates. "Sandra, I'm thirty-one. I'm in the best shape of my life, my bosses are a gay man who wants my show to include the kind of social commentary I really like--"  
  
"Hello," Berlanti deadpanned from behind his sunglasses.  
  
"--and a crazed leftist who keeps sending me fanart that he found on the Internet for some reason, I've gone from backup dancing and stunt work to lead credit on a series that's damn close to syndication, I've gotten to work with some fantastic people like Vic Garber, Stephen Amell, Jes and Katrina here--actually, let's just extend that to everybody here in this room." Brandon Routh clutched his chest and made an _aww!_  sound; his wife gently slapped his shoulder with a smile. "I'm at the top of my game, and Comrade Donnie's been nothing but supportive. I mean, it's like he's a completely different person, he's acting like, I dunno, a fan. Younger, if I didn't know better I'd say he was a college kid."  
  
Berlanti coughed spasmodically, but waved off the others as they looked at him. "Nothing, nothing, water went down the wrong pipe."  
  
"...anyway, he's weird, and the fanart can get a bit annoying when he sends it at 3 AM, but honestly, it's cute shit, and I'm happy that Mr. Berlanti's idea for a 'birthday present' for the President has led to...well, it's a spoiler, but it's something that I think is actually kinda really sweet.  
  
"Also I get to make out with Hayley Atwell, so I think I'm coming out on top here just on the basis of that episode alone."  
  
"Wait,  _what_?" the reporter stumbled over her words.  
  
"Well, since our viewership tripled last season thanks to Comrade Donnie, I was able to hire some big-name talent," Berlanti explained. "Hayley agreed to play French singer, swordswoman, and dilettante Julie d'Aubigny about halfway through the season."  
  
"Poor Sara Lance is a helpless bisexual mess," Lotz added as the cast snickered. “But in all seriousness, the President--he’s completely, fundamentally different on every level. Katrina and I were talking about this earlier--it’s more obvious in person but you can see traces in his press conferences and rallies. I’d go so far as to say that the man in that body isn’t even Donald Trump, he’s so different. Young, like millennial young, probably a farm kid or some kinda environmentalist activist, he knows a lot about the outdoors and talks about how he went hiking with his dad a lot to watch birds or something. Deep-seated confidence issues that he covers with bluster, that’s superficially like Trump but the difference is Trump did it  _instinctively_  while he has to  _work_  at it. Very left-wing obviously, too. He doesn’t seem to have Trump’s casual cruelty, either. Oh, and the way he talks in person is completely different, it’s like he jumps from topic to topic instead of blathering incoherently in a word salad.”  
  
“The New York accent is as fake as the plastic rat’s nest he calls a toupee,” Berlanti added. “His real accent is kinda unplaceable American but he sometimes sprinkles in a vaguely British affect and vocabulary when talking to people with a British accent, he changes a bit with his audience. Also he takes other people getting hurt really hard.”  
  
“Exactly,” Lotz nodded. “That’s not Donald Trump. That’s a person so fundamentally different, I don’t think that he ever was Trump. It’s like...jesus, I can’t even explain it. He’s a giant kid in the body of a decrepit sociopath. Anyway, to answer your question in full, he’s so different from Trump that I actually kinda like the guy, and also, it doesn’t even matter either way because I’m at the top of my game; even if he were still an asshole, what does it matter? I love myself, I’ve got great friends, a great life, a hellaciously great body, nobody’s gonna get me down.”  
  
“Amen to that!” Tala Ashe chuckled. Richardson-Sellers nodded enthusiastically. Katrina Law high-fived Lotz, both women grinning.  
  
“What do the rest of you think of working for the President?” the interviewer asked.  
  
“I actually talked to him for the first time while we were getting ready for this interview,” Law spoke up. “He was...yeah, like Caity said. A fan. He gushed at me about this worldbuilding he did for Nyssa and the League of Assassins for his fanfiction, and complimented my performance. And the weird part--” she indicated her cleavage-baring dress “--he didn’t ogle me, that really surprised me. Nervous as Hell, too. So...honestly, I’m kind of optimistic?”  
  
“He’s a lunatic,” Routh said, “but honestly, that’s better than pre-inauguration Donald Trump.”  
  
“Agreed,” Ashe noted. “Also, I’m with Caity that he’s a completely different person. It goes beyond method acting, too.  _Way_  beyond. I mean, I’ve seen Daniel Day-Lewis’s performances, and I’ve known some people who were really passionate about method, but even they...it’s like, how do I explain this, Trump is backwards from a method actor leaving character. People usually slip back into character a bit, going back to character catchphrases and stuff, just after they leave; Trump didn’t do that. He only recently went back to that MAGA thing, for example. That’s a straight-up different human being in there.”  
  
“How could that possibly happen, though?” Zano asked. “I mean, this is still real life, right? I’m kinda questioning that some days, but I’m pretty sure this is still real life.”  
  
“Can we please move on from the President?” Berlanti asked amid the chuckles. “Look, I’m one of maybe ten people who knows the truth. And I’m not telling, because it’s so fucking insane that I’d probably be locked up if I spilled it. I have no idea how it happened, though whatever caused it is probably big news for religion...all religions, really. So, yeah. Let’s talk about something else, like our show, our plans for a musical episode, that sort of thing?”  
  
“Musical episode?” the interviewer asked.  
  
“Oh, I got the script for this,” Ashe grinned. “It’s gonna be  _fantastic_.”  
  
“I have the easiest job in the world,” Routh chuckled. “I have to pretend to be attracted to my wife, the loveliest woman on the planet.”  
  
“And I have to pretend to be attracted to the love of my life,” Ford replied, blowing her husband a kiss. “Truly, our jobs are  _hard_.”  
  
“So hard. I may faint from the sheer strain of acting so hard.”  
  
“Indeed, I may even chew the scenery.”  
  
Richardson-Sellers and Law collapsed into incoherent giggling.  
  
***  
  
 _July 21st._  
  
“Donnie…”  
  
“Vinnie, I  _swear_  I won’t insult his mother,” I promise, making sure the wig from my Klingon costume is covering enough of my face (along with the rubber forehead) that I’m unrecognizable. My henchman sighs, but stands and follows me, fake Spock ears and all. “I’ll be reasonable, I promise!”  
  
Vinnie snorts, but remains quiet as I take my place behind a mid-sized white kid with brown hair and a thirty-gallon backpack. He turns, grinning amiably.  
  
I freeze.  
  
“Hey, nice costume, man!” I tell me, leaning over to examine my replica bat’leth. “I always wanted to dress up as a Klingon for Halloween, you know, but never had the time.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” I manage. I continue.  
  
“You don’t like the Klinguruk-Hai either, huh?”  
  
“Uh-uh.”  
  
“Yeah, they’re, you know, just one of the many problems with STD.” I show me a notebook. “I made a  _list_ of all my problems with it, both from a writing standpoint, you know, character and story, and from a canon compatibility standpoint.”  
  
“Uh guh.”  
  
“Oh, hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Ian. Ian--”  
  
“Comrade Donnie,” I tell the other me, grabbing and shaking his hand. His eyes go wide.  
  
“ _Holy shit!_ ”  
  
“Ssh, don’t spread it around!” I hiss, my nervous sweat starting to make the underside of my rubber forehead slick. “I’m incognito. Gonna surprise Kurtzfucker.”  
  
“Oh, man. Oh, man, that’s brilliant, uh, um, Mr. President, uh, um…”  
  
“Thanks. Yeah. Um. So, you enjoying the con?”  
  
“Yeah! Weirdest thing, somebody anonymously set me up with a plane ticket and a weekend VIP pass. Mom and Dad were confused, it’s like that time last spring when somebody hacked my spare email and accessed my Ao3 profile from somewhere in Maryland or Virginia. Weird stuff, you know?”  
  
“Yeah. Weird.” I lick my lips. Should the world be swaying so much? Shouldn’t meeting myself cause some kind of time paradox?  
  
“Anyway, I’m a huge fan, Mr. President, I know, uh, you were kind of a bad guy on the campaign trail, and I’m a big Bernie fan, but when you turned around and started supporting LGBT rights and all that stuff you did for  _Supergirl_ , I admit I was kinda skeptical at first but wow, I mean, that was some  _good_ shit!”  
  
“Uh, thank you. I, uh, try my best, heh.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s weird, half the stuff from season 3 is basically exactly the way  _I_  would’ve done it. Like, I was writing fic, and every time I had something half-drafted, the new episode would come in and have basically the same thing, you know?”  
  
“Yeah. Weird.” Vinnie audibly suppresses a laugh from behind me.  
  
“So, what’re you going to do to piss off Kurtzman?”  
  
I grin. Finally something to distract me! “I’m gonna challenge him to a  _quv bey_ ,” I declare, gleefully brandishing my bat’leth. “List his sins against the franchise, you know?”  
  
“ _Brilliant_ ,” I tell me, struggling not to break out laughing. I turn quickly to glance at the line, and realize it’s moved. “C’mon, Mr. President, I’ll warm him up for you!”  
  
“Thanks, uh, kid. That, uh, sounds great! Say...how active are you, you know, in my fandom?”  
  
I purse my lips. “ _Well_ , I’m not one of those idiots with guns, you know, sometimes I kinda think about it and like the idea but then I remember I’ve got the body of a root vegetable and decide against it. Mom would  _kill_ me if I did that, too. I’ve gone to some marches, though! Honestly I’m just so glad that I graduated without fucking it up, never been happier that I let Dad convince me to buy a room A/C.”  
  
“Fair enough,” I nod. At least it seems like I’m doing better than I was last life.  
  
And  _fuck_ , I need some better pronouns for the two mes, the me in Trump’s body and the me in my own!  
  
***  
  
 _July 22nd._  
  
“What the heck is all this about?” the woman asks as she’s ushered in to the dark room. “Mr.--Vinnie, was it? If you try anything funny I  _will_ Mace you and call Security.”  
  
“No need for that, ma’am,” I declare as I turn the light on dramatically. Mr. Whiskers meows angrily and digs his claws into my crotch because I had to stop petting him to turn the light on.  
  
I scream like a little girl, try to leap to my feet, stumble backwards over my chair, and send the startled cat flying into the second person to walk in, a black-haired guy with a messy kinda goatee and scraggly moustache. Mr. Whiskers is effectively a missile with four sharpened pitons, and hits the guy straight-on full in the chest.  
  
“ _JESUS FUCK!_ ” somebody screams. Mr. Whiskers yowls in outrage, Vinnie yells for backup, and I wave my arms and legs in the air ineffectually.  
  
Maybe in real life the whole Blofeld thing doesn’t really work.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” I say after Vinnie’s detached the cat from Stjepan Sejic’s chest and my minions have helped me up. “I thought it’d be cool, you know, to do the whole supervillain thing.” Mr. Whiskers weaves himself through my legs and meows insistently. “He’s temperamental.”  
  
“Apology accepted,” Sejic says, wincing as a Secret Service agent hastily applies antiseptic to his chest. “So...what did you want to talk about?”  
  
I put a printout of a Twitter conversation in front of him, and he and the woman lean forward to take a look. “You and Ms. Simone here had a Twitter conversation about a  _Tomb Raider/Wonder Woman_  crossover. I want you to make it a reality. Vinnie here has... _handled_ the legal issues with Comrade Greg, don’t ask me how.”  
  
Gail Simone looks at Sejic. Sejic looks at Simone. They both look at me.  
  
“You didn’t need the dark room or the cat,” Simone points out.  
  
“Yeah, I at least would’ve done this if you walked up to me at the booth on the floor and mentioned that you’d set this up,” Sejic adds.  
  
“What he said,” Simone agrees. “We’re in.”  
  
My squeal of glee is almost enough to shatter glass.

***

_July 24th. Rome, Italy._  
  
“Run that by me again?” John Oliver asked, slumped in his chair with his wrinkled suit sitting awkwardly on his pasty white form.  
  
“Your approval rating is over 65%,  _Signor_ Prime Minister,” Pietro Grasso repeated. “As the leader of one of the parties in your governing coalition, please allow me to convey my party’s congratulations.”  
  
“Thanks.” Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan. “How? How is this fucking possible? I’m a goddamn  _comedian_! Is it the promise I made for new elections?”  
  
“Actually, according to the analysts in my campaign office, that caused a  _dip_ in your numbers. People want us to get something done, not set up new elections.”  
  
Oliver groaned again, and slumped forwards so that his forehead rested on his desk. “I don’t get it, Pietro. I just don’t fucking get it. I’m not even Italian!”  
  
“Yes, well, you’re also not a corrupt sociopath like Berlusconi, a corrupt fascist like Salvini, or a corrupt stuffed shirt like DiMaio.” Grasso shrugged. “If it helps, I have a slate that I’m going to introduce today to deal with immigration.”  
  
Oliver forced himself up with Herculean effort, and sighed. “Alright. I need to be on the same page before I do my next public briefing, then. What’s the plan?”  
  
“Well, first we’re going to need a special provision to confiscate Berlusconi’s remaining assets. Then we’ll have to set up a work program like President Trump’s been working on with that money, and find a way to divert more funds to get people working.”  
  
“Great. I’m starting up my show again, in a way; I’ll make the first episode about that.” Oliver massaged his temples. “God, I can’t believe I agreed to this.”  
  
“If it helps, you’re far from the worst possible Prime Minister we could have had.”  
  
Oliver let out a hollow chuckle. “Yeah. That just about says it, doesn’t it?” He shook his head. “Right, well, let’s get to work. This country won’t fix itself, right?”  
  
“Indeed,  _Signor_ Prime Minister, indeed. There is, ah, one small potential image issue that your secretary brought to my attention.”  
  
“The good or bad kind of issue?”  
  
Grasso dropped a DVD case on Oliver’s desk. “Does once playing a character called ‘Dick Pound’ in a low-quality comedy movie qualify as good or bad news?”  
  
“...Fuck.”  
  
“Apparently you are a meme and currently trending on Twitter again,  _Signor_ Prime Minister. Number three, behind President Trump and a controversial historical drama film from India.”  
  
“ _Fuck_.”  
  
***  
  
 _July 27th._  
  
“...and another round of protests started in Qatar today,” Annie says, ticking off items on my itinerary. “You’ll need a comment ready. It looks like they’re protesting political repression and the poor human rights conditions of foreign guest-workers. The word ‘slavery’ was thrown around at several points.”  
  
“OK, well, fuck the Qatari government just as much as the Saudis, they’re both evil. Which reminds me--Vinnie, tell Mueller it’s time to use the tapes. I want coordination with Walker, we’re going to blackmail Mo Bone-Saw into political and human rights concessions and get his ass out of Yemen. If he doesn’t comply, then I’ll release the tapes at a press conference and laugh as he loses his head.”  
  
“ _Careful_ ,” Fatima warns. “Thinking through things, right?”  
  
“I  _have_ ,” I counter. “Mo Bone-Saw is causing untold suffering in Yemen on a daily basis with his stupid proxy war turned invasion. It’s gotta end.”  
  
“I’m with him,” Vinnie confirms.  
  
“...very well,” Fatima acquiesces. “I’ll get a press conference ready.”  
  
“Awesome, you’re the best, Fatima. Seriously.”  
  
She blushes in spite of herself. “Thank you, Donnie. Now please, focus on work.”  
  
“You got it.” I turn back to Annie as Fatima leaves. “What next?”  
  
“Comey wants to talk about white-supremacist chatter the FBI’s picked up. Some Facebook group called Odin’s Warriors.”  
  
“Facebook, again? Fucking Zuckerberg...OK, fine, I’ll deal with it after my meeting. How’s the media?”  
  
“Coverage of your... _diplomatic row_...has finally slowed down. The Duke of Sussex apologized through a back-channel, we think that the Duchess talked him into it. You will need to fly to Britain to apologize to the Duchess in person for ruining her wedding, that was his one condition.”  
  
“Fine. I kinda feel like an ass about that anyway. Anything else before I get dragged to therapy?”  
  
Annie flips through her list. “Nothing right now. Must be a slow week. Hell, I don’t even think  _McConnell_ did anything today.”  
  
I shake my head. “Don’t tempt Murphy, Annie. There’s no way Moscow Mitch doesn’t have something else up his sleeve. Right. Let’s go, Vinnie. I gotta get my head examined and then ask Comey what new bullshit the alt-right are fucking around with.”  
  
***  
  
 _July 31st. Madison, Wisconsin._  
  
“It’s not that we don’t appreciate the offer,” Faisal ibn Selim al-Baghdadi said, “it’s just, you know, guns around children…”  
  
“No, I understand completely,” the bearded white man in a  _POTUSMAGA_ T-shirt and a red baseball cap with a yellow grain and gear on it replied. Behind him, Faisal’s co-worker Amal bint-Hamid looked back and forth warily between the children on the West Madison Islamic Community Center’s attached playground and the two large white men with pistols strapped to their hips. “It’s just, you know, Comrade Donnie says that we should do something productive instead of just running around beating the shit out of fascists and Klansmen, so we figured, since Muslims and trans people are the most at-risk groups in America, Barry and I figured, we could come and help guard you guys in case some psycho tries something, you know?”  
  
“Right…” Faisal drawled, “but...did you think this through or did you come here from a rally?”  
  
“Actually, from a John Brown Gun Club meeting. MAGA Socialism and all that, you know?”  
  
“...OK, look, I really appreciate the offer, truly, I do, but some people, like my mother, you know, she has a sensitive heart, and she might draw the wrong impression from two white men with guns, you know?”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry, we’re here to protect you,” the bearded man assured Faisal as his beardless friend, Barry, nodded with a grin. “With some guys with guns out here, nobody’ll dare to try to hurt anyone here.”  
  
“MAGA Liberty!” Barry agreed cheerfully.  
  
“That’s great, but I’m afraid that I’m going to have to  _insist_ …”  
  
***  
  
Thomas Alan Bolin, self-declared “Folk Odinist” and co-founder of the “Odin’s Warriors” Facebook group, checked his camera headset and made sure that his livestream was hooked up properly to his facebook feed. “Testing, one, two, 14/88,” he said, and nodded to himself as the sound came out of his laptop’s speakers. “OK, boys. Bruh, we’re gonna have a great day today.” He hefted his AR-15 assault rifle, ‘1683 REVENGE!’ painted on the side, and cocked it noisily, grinning at the noise. “Remember to follow me on Facebook, and subscribe to PewDiePie, show your support for white power. Gonna remove lots of kebab today, show my cousin Austin that we don’t need to fear the fuckin’ Feds, start the purification of this nation! That degenerate cultural-Marxist race-traitor cuck faggot Trump thinks he can pollute our race by importing Mahometan invaders to replace us, but he hasn’t counted on the will of the White Race to defend our white women from the kebab invasion! 14/88! White Power! The Day of the Rope is nigh!” He floored the gas on his pickup truck…  
  
And nothing happened, save a sudden roar of the engine.  _Shit! Fuck!_  He’d forgotten to take it out of Park mode! Cursing internally, Bolin put the truck into Drive, and floored the gas again, flipping the switch on his boom box.  
  
The truck surged forwards, towards the fence surrounding the playground, and Bolin whooped with glee as  _Karadzic, Lead Your Serbs!_  blared from his boom box. “ _BLOOD AND SOIL! REMOVE KEBAB! DEUS VULT!_ ”  
  
***  
  
Faisal turned at the sound of a roaring engine mixed with a sudden burst of loud music, and his heart caught in his throat. “ _AMAL_!” he screamed, the idiot Donnie cultists forgotten as the pickup truck crashed through the fence, headed straight for the sandbox. Amal, who’d been reprimanding Fuad Faldan’s son for tugging a girl’s hair, hauled the child up with remarkable strength for a woman barely five-foot-two, and physically threw the boy aside. She grabbed a toddler from the sandbox, toy car falling forgotten from the little girl’s mouth as Amal stumbled in the sand, the pickup roaring up as time seemed to slow down…  
  
The pickup crashed into the sandbox, clipping Amal’s hip and leg, and the woman flew a good six feet before crashing into the swing set as Faisal’s brain caught up in a rush.  
  
“Amal! Oh,  _allahu akbar_ , what could...Amal, I’m coming!” Faisal charged towards the swing set, his co-worker twitching as the girl she’d picked up screamed in terror, the other children either scattering on instinct or frozen in terror.  
  
Another white man, this one wearing a weird red patch with a white cross on it on his chest, stepped out of the pickup, a rifle in his hands and a heavy-looking headset in place of a hat. “Remove kebab! Die, infidel!” he screamed, and Faisal stumbled on the loose mulch as he tried to stop and step aside simultaneously.  
  
There was a triple beat, impossibly loud in Faisal’s ears, and he stumbled as three punches slammed into his gut, stealing his breath as he collapsed in an ungainly heap on the ground. The shooter whooped gleefully, his music still playing.  
  
“Remove, remove, remove kebab!” the man cheered along with the lyrics as Faisal struggled for breath. “Fatali--”  
  
There was a  _crack_ of more gunfire, and Faisal dimly saw the man stumble back as blood spurted from his chest and abdomen. More shots, a slower, steady pattern, sixteen shots in close pairs, and the shooter did a crazy dance as the bullets hit him, before he hit his truck and slumped, convulsing.  
  
“Call 911!” Barry the Donnie-cultist shouted, throwing up mulch as he crashed to the ground on his knees next to Faisal. “Quick, Jeff!”  
  
“On it!” Someone was screaming. It sounded like Amal. “The lady’s alive--ma’am, it’s gonna be OK, I’m calling an ambulance!”  
  
“Ch...ch…” Faisal managed, something hot and wet soaking his hands as he clutched at the nexus of pain in his abdomen. “Chil...dren...are...they…”  
  
“Kids are fine,” Barry assured him, looking down at the damage with a hiss. “Try not to move, man. I’m an EMT, I’ll take care of you. Here, take my shirt…” Barry stripped off his own POTUSMAGA T-shirt. “Hold it against the wound, as much pressure as you can manage!”  
  
“Got...it…”  
  
“Good--Jeff, how is she?”  
  
“I don’t know, man, I’m an electrician! Uh, there’s not as much blood as I thought...but her legs are all fucked up…”  
  
“Watch Faisal here, I’ll check her out. And shut that fucking noise off!”  
  
“You got it.” Jeff stepped over Faisal as Barry hurried over to Amal. “It’s gonna be alright, dude, Barry knows what he’s doing.” Faisal managed something approaching a nod as Jeff stepped up to the truck, reached in…  
  
As the music shut off, Faisal saw the shooter twitch.  
  
“J-J-” Damn it, his teeth were chattering. “JEFF!” Faisal wheezed with everything he had left. The Donnie-cultist turned with a question on his lips…  
  
The AR-15 sounded again, and Jeff fell, howling as the bullets tore into his leg. The shooter was forcing himself up with a light of burning hatred in his eyes, and Faisal felt a queer sort of calm as the monster’s shaking gun hand raised towards him, blood coming up with the shooter’s spasmodic cough.  
  
Some deeper reserve of strength forced Faisal’s legs to work again, and he powered forward over the fallen Jeff with laser-focus, the pain and noise disappearing as Faisal charged on adrenaline alone. Another three-round burst went wide as Faisal closed the gap and hit the man’s shaking hand aside, and Faisal’s shoulder rammed into the gunman’s perforated chest, forcing him back with preternatural strength.  
  
The back of the gunman’s head hit the corner edge of his pickup’s rear door with a sickening  _thwack_ of bone and flesh, and Faisal collapsed to the ground, the shooter’s limp body collapsing on top of him.  
  
The last thing Faisal heard before he passed out was Barry yelling into his phone for three ambulances.


End file.
